


Die for This Kingdom

by MistressPandora



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst, Bootlegger Jamie, Children In Danger, Claire Beauchamp/Annalise de Marillac (mentioned), Cop!John Grey, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Lovers, Graphic Violence, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, I miscounted those MCDs before I'M SO SORRY, Jamie/Claire (past), John Grey/Isobel Dunsany (past), Just a lot of violence and blood, Kidnapping, Law Enforcement, M/M, Major Character Death x5, Minor Character Death, Revenge, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Strong Language, single dads, the kids are alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-23 07:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 45,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30051843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: All Jamie “Fortnight” Fraser wants is to provide a good, safe life for his family in Chicago. But with tragedies keeping him tangled in his uncle’s deadly schemes and one tenacious—and handsome—police officer determined to bring him in, Fortnight Fraser has a choice to make. Bend to Dougal’s will… or burn it all to the ground.
Relationships: Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey
Comments: 157
Kudos: 30
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Lord John Grey AU Event 2021, Outlander Bingo Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I invite you to enjoy the accompanying Spotify playlist, [found here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/40uHgw5kpe16mk38B1NJ8Y?si=yAh7oS_WST6MbPQ_SEyIvg).
> 
> I have compiled a lot of notes and included these in the last "chapter" as an annotated bibliography.
> 
> _Please be sure that you have reviewed all of the tags. This story is graphically violent, with multiple Major Character Deaths (plus some minor ones throughout)._

“Higher, Da!” Brianna squealed, her red pigtails and blue dress flying behind her on the tire swing. 

“Alright, but hold on tight now, ye wee daredevil.” Jamie grinned and gave his daughter a shove. The rope creaked on the tree branch, the sound drowned out by Brianna’s pure laughter that had Jamie’s heart fit to burst. It had been a long week away from each other. His arrangement with Claire made sense. Brianna needed her mother after all, needed to be in one place all week to go to school. It was cordial, positive. Though every Friday, he acutely felt Claire’s absence in his home as he scrambled to make it a place fit for a lass.

“I’m going to jump, count me down,” Bree shouted. 

“Aye then. One for the money.”

“Two for the show!” she said.

“Three to get ready…”

“And go, go, _go!”_ On the last _go_ , she launched herself from the tire and landed in a crouch with a loud, “Oof.” Brianna grinned up at Jamie and brushed the grass from her stockings. “Look how far I went!”

“I think ye sprouted wings. How does grilled cheese sound for lunch?” Jamie asked, holding his hand out for his daughter.

Brianna sprang to her feet and took Jamie’s hand. “Yummy! With soup?” 

“Naturally.” He turned toward the house but stopped when Brianna tugged his hand. She pointed to the street when he looked down to see what was amiss.

“Uncle Dougal’s here,” she said.

Icy dread settled hard and fast into the pit of Jamie’s stomach. He’d asked Dougal not to come around on his weekends with Brianna, and he’d largely respected that. If he was here, then something was probably wrong. 

Then Jamie’s godfather stepped out of the passenger seat of Dougal’s Mercedes Roadster looking all sorts of grim, and Jamie’s heart sank all the way to the scraggly grass under his shoes. 

“Papa Murtagh!” Brianna shouted and dashed toward the car, waiting obediently at the curb until Murtagh stepped off the street and scooped her up. 

“Aren’t ye getting big!” Murtagh said, hugging her. At eight years old, she was almost too tall to be picked up anymore. “What’s yer da feeding ye, hmm? Fertilizer? What’s say we go inside while yer da and Uncle Dougal have a wee chat, aye?” Murtagh gave Jamie a nod and a pat on the arm as he walked by to the front door.

Jamie fixed his uncle with a hard stare. “What brings ye all the way here on my weekend off?”

Dougal heaved a sigh and frowned, his snowy brows drawn together in obvious distress. “There’s been an accident. Murdo let it slip this morning.”

“Murdo the Spy?”

Dougal nodded.

“Alright,” Jamie said. “And what’s this to do with me?”

“Jamie, lad…” Dougal trailed off, then took a deep breath and pressed on. “It’s Claire. She and Annalise were in a car accident last night. Drove right off the Michigan Avenue Bridge. I’m sorry, Jamie. They’re both dead.”

Everything came to a terrible halt, like the screeching of a phonograph needle. Jamie’s knees buckled, and he sank to the sun-warmed grass, forgetting to breathe on the way down. They’d been divorced for nearly a year, parted on good terms, had remained friends. But Claire was his first love. The mother of his child. 

_Oh. Oh dear God, Brianna._

Sudden anger and unaccountable disbelief flared white hot in Jamie’s chest, and he glared up at his uncle. “No. No they’re not. Ye’re lying.” It was a stupid accusation, impotent to his own ears. 

Dougal squatted down in front of him. “Jamie, lad. Why would I lie about a thing like this? Murdo saw Annalise’s sister coming out of the morgue from identifying the bodies. He confirmed it with his contact at the precinct after that, said they pulled the car out of the Chicago River just past dawn.”

Jamie’s breakfast threatened to come back up and he coughed, trying to force down his rising gorge. Dougal put a hand on his shoulder and Jamie threw it off, jumping back to his feet and pacing away. 

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see through his tears. It’s not like Jamie hadn’t lost plenty of people in his life. Brothers, friends, cousins. All lost to the swath of destruction that had followed this violent, bloody branch of the MacKenzie family across the Atlantic to settle in Chicago. But not like this. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking _fair_. Claire was never meant to be a part of any of this. She’d just found her happiness. She’d just realized that no matter how content they’d been together, for Claire it had been a lie. And Annalise, she didn’t deserve to die either. Neither of them did. Not now. Not young and full of life, with Brianna needing her mother. Not with Jamie still needing a friend, having no idea how to be a father to a lass all on his own.

At some point, Jamie had made it to the stoop and collapsed on the steps, his face in his hands. “Oh, God, Bree.”

Dougal sat down next to him, but Jamie didn’t bother looking up, noticing only that he’d worn green socks with freshly polished brown wingtips. After a moment, Dougal laid a rough hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “I’ve already wired yer sister. I'm sure she'll be more than happy to take Brianna for ye—”

“No,” Jamie said, cutting him off. “She stays wi’ me.”

“Be reasonable, lad,” Dougal replied gently. “Just until ye get yerself sorted. Ye ken as well as I do this is nay life for a child. What will ye do, take yer daughter bootlegging? Teach her to fight and lie to the police?” 

Dougal was right, of course. It was bad enough she had a still-single divorcee for a father, much less a career criminal. Of course she couldn’t come on runs. And what would happen to her if something happened to Jamie? If another gang found out Fortnight Fraser had a young daughter they could exploit? No, none of that would do, Dougal was right about that. But shipping Brianna off to Scotland wasn’t the answer either.

Jamie wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. Straightening his spine, he gave his uncle a level stare. “I want out.”

Dougal’s eyes went wide. “Ye want… Jamie, it’s no’ that simple and ye ken that.”

"Aye, it is. Give my runs to Angus, he can handle it."

Dougal’s eyebrows shot up. "Angus? Have ye lost yer mind? Angus is capable, aye, but he’s no’ Fortnight Fraser good. And what about you? Who’s going to hire a hardened criminal, not two years out of Cook County, and who only avoided Alcatraz because of a well-placed bribe and a technicality?”

“No one has to ken that.” Jamie heard the threat under Dougal’s warning, and he called his bluff.

“Now, Jamie, there’s business and there’s family, and there’s the family business. This is all three.” Dougal clasped his hands loosely in front of him and rested his elbows on the perfectly creased knees of his trousers. “Ye ken I must do everything to protect this family. And that includes you and the lass. Now, I ken Claire throwing ye out was—”

Jamie’s temper flared, and he shot to his feet again, standing over his uncle with his fists clenched. “Ye dinnae ken a thing about it. And ye’ll no’ speak ill of her. Not to me, not in my house, and certainly not where her daughter can hear, do ye understand?”

Dougal raised his hands in surrender and muttered a half-arsed apology. “I meant no disrespect. All I’m saying is, I ken it’s been a difficult year for ye. But times like this are what the family is for, is it no’? Ye need to be closer, not cast out on yer own.”

He was right, of course. Jamie couldn't do this alone. And even if he managed to find a job—doing what, dear Lord—his reputation always had a way of making itself known. He knew too many people, was too easily recognizable. It's not like Jamie had one of those faces that looked like any other face that would let him say, “You must have me confused with someone else.” In a city full of Irish and Italian immigrants, a giant ginger with a heavy Scots accent was difficult not to notice and harder to forget.

“Aye, ye’re right,” Jamie said at last, begrudging every syllable. 

Sighing, Jamie let the anger fizzle out. He needed to get himself together for Brianna’s sake. All Jamie wanted to do was sit on that stoop and weep for Claire, his dear friend and first love. Perhaps they hadn’t turned out to be a match made in heaven, but they’d had good times. And they had Brianna. But he had to push that aside now for his daughter’s sake. He could fall to pieces later, but for now he had to break his little girl’s heart.

It was a sunny day on the cusp of autumn, and the afternoon felt suddenly thick and heavy. Jamie could have sworn that the brass doorknob burnt his palm as he turned it and pushed the door open. He was greeted by the smell of slightly charred toast and tomato soup threatening to boil over the rim of the copper pot on the range, and the sound of Brianna chattering away happily with Murtagh. 

_Jesus, Mary, and Bride, let me be enough._


	2. Chapter 2

Brianna fell asleep that night in record time, wrung out and exhausted from crying, poor lass. 

Dougal had stayed for a few hours, making arrangements to have some of Brianna’s things collected from Claire’s house until Jamie could meet Annalise’s sister to clean it out. The police had come by after a lunch that no one ate to notify Jamie of the accident and to be sure that Brianna was accounted for. Dougal handled that too, on the porch, and Brianna was spared their coldness. His uncle had made sure Jamie and Brianna both had food in their bellies as the sun began to set, and then left. 

Murtagh had insisted on staying, bless him, predicting a very long night for the both of them. When Jamie pulled Brianna’s bedroom door quietly shut, his godfather had a rather tall glass of whisky waiting for him. Jamie muttered his thanks and collapsed into an old armchair with a huff. He took a long pull from the glass, blasphemously fast for such good scotch. Dougal charged an exorbitant fee to smuggle it from Scotland, but what did it matter? Family didn’t pay those prices.

Resting his glass on his knee, Jamie leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. “She didnae even tease me for singing out of key. She always says, ‘Why don’t ye let Mama teach ye how to carry a tune in a bucket?’” Tears burned Jamie’s eyes and he let them fall. “She didnae. Poor lass will never get a decent lullabye again.”

Murtagh gave a wordless grunt and said nothing, taking a seat on the sofa and sipping his own glass of whisky. 

Jamie wiped at his face, digging his thumb and two fingers into his eyes. But the tears had already started. “Did Dougal phone the funeral home before he left?”

“Aye. Funeral is Wednesday.” After a pause, Murtagh elaborated. “He was able to get them a double plot, like ye said. Annalise’s parents were no’ too keen on it, but Dougal can be verra persuasive.”

“Dougal’s _money_ is verra persuasive.” Jamie took another sip, holding the whisky in his mouth and letting it fill him with a comforting warmth. “It doesnae matter. They’ll be together, that’s what is important.”

“What Dougal couldnae persuade them to agree to was a double service.”

Jamie scoffed and shook his head. “Blind, bigoted fools.”

After a pause, Murtagh said very quietly, “And they’ve asked ye not to bring Brianna to Annalise’s service.”

“Like hell I willnae. Annalise was more of a parent to Brianna than I was for years.” Jamie’s blood boiled, the tears falling freely and he ignored them. 

“I ken that, but—”

“They’ll have to bring the fucking United States Marines to keep me and Brianna out of that church.” Jamie polished off his glass, his hand shaking with anger. “I do not care that Annalise’s family was terribly scandalized when they finally realized she and Claire were so much more than friends. And I’ll be damned if she doesnae get the respect she deserves.”

Jamie had been in prison when Brianna was born. And sure, it had been a little strange at first that his wife had made fast friends with a woman he’d gone on a date with—and only one—before they’d wed. But Jamie and Annalise had left it friendly. And outside of Dougal and the MacKenzies, Claire had few people she could turn to when Jamie had been arrested, tried, and convicted on a bullshit murder charge. Of all the crimes he was actually guilty of, that particular murder was a total frame job.

And so he’d been taken away from Claire when she was seven months along. Then had come Annalise. She came to stay with Claire after Brianna was born and helped her out. Cooking, cleaning, changing Bree, picking up groceries from the market. And five years later, when Jamie’s conviction was finally overturned and he was released, Annalise helped him and Brianna get to know each other. It had been her idea that Jamie and Brianna have special outings just the two of them. 

All the while, he and Claire struggled to reconnect. They were practically strangers after five years apart, and no matter how good things were, there was always something there, something hanging over them, driving a wedge between them. 

It had been February when Claire had asked him for a divorce. There was snow on the ground and Brianna was at school. At first Jamie had thought it a strange conversation to have with Annalise there, but then he saw Claire’s white-knuckled grip on her hand. Through frightened tears, Claire told him everything, filled in all the gaps. Annalise had moved in just to help while Jamie was in prison, and they hadn’t meant for it to happen, but they’d fallen in love. And though the feelings Claire had for Jamie were real and good, she’d realized that she wasn’t attracted to men the way she was attracted to women in general and Annalise in particular. 

Claire cried and begged Jamie’s forgiveness. His first reaction had been utter jealousy, a dozen nasty things he could say but didn’t really mean flying through his head and, by some miracle, not leaving his mouth. Because when he looked at his wife, all he saw was the woman he loved begging for the opportunity to be happy and her honest self. And when he looked at Annalise, he saw steadfast strength and love as solid as his. He saw his daughter’s third parent. 

Jamie had had all the power in that conversation. He could have refused the amicable divorce Claire had asked for and forced her to drag them all through the hell and stigma of the courts and risk losing his daughter forever. Or he could agree and do the honorable thing.

So, after a rather long consultation with his inner demons over the sink, Jamie had knelt on the kitchen floor in front of Claire. She’d flinched and Annalise had stiffened, but then Jamie put his arms around Claire’s shoulders and held her. “Alright,” he’d said. “I love you. All I want is for ye to be happy.” To Annalise, he’d said only, “I dinna need to tell ye that this is a rare woman. Ye’ll take good care of her, ken?”

And she had. They were absolutely beautiful together. Happy—nay, joyful. Seeing Claire look at Annalise, to see the guards come down, had been a complete revelation. While she and Jamie had agreed not to regret their time together, he could see that as his wife, Claire had been in a cage. But with Annalise she was free.

Murtagh passed Jamie the bottle of whisky and he refilled his glass. _Lord, that they may be together._ Jamie took a long drink, then another, finishing the fresh glass. “Oh, God, she’s really gone, isn’t she?” The slow sadness gave way then to a horrific grief, to total despair, and Jamie squeezed the glass so hard it broke in his hand. He winced and doubled over, sobbing and choking on his tears. His chest hurt, some grim reaper carving out a Claire-shaped piece of his heart. He’d learned to accept that they couldn’t be together, had been truly happy for her when they'd split though his heart was broken. But she’d still been alive then. She’d still been somewhere out there, bringing light and laughter to the world. All that remained of Claire in the whole world was a desperately grieving red-headed lass sleeping fitfully in the next room. 

He couldn’t breathe through his sobs. Couldn’t see through his tears. All Jamie wanted to do was scream and rage and smash everything he could reach. But Brianna needed her sleep and to not be terrified of the only parent she had left.

Murtagh appeared in front of him, prying Jamie’s hand open and dropping the broken glass into a rubbish bin. “Christ,” his godfather muttered, picking shards out of his palm. 

Jamie barely noticed his hand. It might as well have been someone else’s hand, someone else’s blood. It didn’t register, didn’t matter. Murtagh quietly cleaned him up, bandaged his hand, and pressed another full glass into his uninjured one. “Dinna break that one,” he said. And then came the sound of Brianna crying, and Murtagh left the den to see to her.

His daughter’s weeping calmed down soon enough, drifting back into sleep, and Jamie drank until he couldn’t feel the hole in his heart and slipped into blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

"Malcolm." The line boss's voice echoed down the production floor, bellowing over the roar of machinery that left Jamie’s ears ringing every night. Jamie—or rather, Alexander Malcolm, as he called himself for straight work—looked up to the metal stairs leading to the dingy management offices where the line boss stood, looking more shifty and twitchy than usual. "Office."

Jamie nodded and set down the heavy crate he was moving down the line, his back protesting the sudden change of direction. He took a deep breath and forced himself not to cough up the lungful of soot and machine dust hanging thick enough that he could have chewed on the air in the dark factory floor.

The line boss didn’t let him get too close before he bolted up the stairs with the air of a man trying rather hard not to look like he was bolting. Jamie sighed. So they’d found out who he was and he was about to get sacked again. 

Sure enough, the line boss had two other managers in the office waiting, the biggest sons of bitches who didn’t actually do any heavy lifting. He probably shouldn’t stare them down like he’d chew them up and spit them out—even though he absolutely could. Either the big fellows were there for moral support or they actually had no idea what Jamie Fortnight Fraser was capable of.

The line boss was making the usual excuses. “It’s nothing personal. You’ve actually done great work in your time here. It’s not me, management, you understand. Not a problem with you specifically, we just don’t want any trouble. Wish you all the best.” He held out a scrap of pink paper, and when Jamie just stared blankly at him, the line boss’s hand began to shake. 

Muttering a curse under his breath, Jamie snatched the pink slip from the wee man’s hand. The two bigger men—still a head shorter than Jamie—bristled, nervous. Oh, so they _did_ have an idea what Fortnight Fraser was capable of. Interesting. 

“Really, it isn’t personal,” the line boss squeaked. What the hell was his name anyway? Oh well, it didn’t matter in the slightest.

It only took a few minutes to collect his belongings and the last of his wages, and then Jamie stepped outside into the early autumn air, squinting under the afternoon sun. 

This was his sixth failed attempt at straight work since Claire had died four months ago, and they all ended the same. Somehow, they figured out he had a criminal record, or assumed he was with the MacKenzies, which of course, he was. And they all decided he wasn’t worth the risk. Factories, lumber yards, the steel mill. It didn’t matter that he was depressingly overqualified for the positions he took. Didn’t matter that he had more education than any three managers put together. Nor that he could outlift and work circles and around anyone else on the floor. None of it mattered, because they all figured out that he’d been in prison for murder. They didn’t care that he was a single father. And they didn’t realize—or care— that the peanuts they paid him to work himself to death could never sustain him and his daughter.

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and kicking at a wadded up sheaf of newspaper, Jamie started his long walk home. Well. At least he’d get there in time to have dinner with Brianna and see her to bed for a change. Murtagh would probably enjoy the night off. Thank God for Murtagh. And for Dougal who refused to let his grandniece go hungry. 

There was plenty of time between the factory and home to sort out what he’d do next. Of course, he’d find another job. Anyone recruiting laborers took one look at Jamie’s large, muscular frame and foamed at the mouth to hire him. It was _keeping_ him that they all seemed to have a problem with.

And it was always on a Friday. Every single time, he got sacked on a Friday, just after lunch. That couldn’t be a coincidence. 

All things considered, though, Jamie was beginning to run low on options. Plants and factories asked fewer questions and had a higher tolerance for vague explanations. But they just didn’t pay the bills. When he’d been a lad, he’d wanted to be a soldier or a police inspector. Well, the Army would probably still take him, he wasn’t that old after all, but they’d also send him away from Brianna, and that wouldn’t do. As for the police… He thought of the officer who’d arrested him as part of some strange, personal vendetta. Well, there was no love lost there, was there? 

There wasn’t a lot of traffic in this part of town, mostly factories and lumber or steel mills, and everyone who came through here was still at work. A thin but steady stream of cars rumbled up and down South Michigan Avenue, a few trucks spewing black exhaust. Jamie comprised the majority of foot traffic this time of day in this neighborhood. Above the dull racket of automobiles, he made out the tell-tale spit of a motorcycle, those terrifying wee things the police had started using because they could travel at break-neck speeds in narrow streets.

Jamie pulled up the collar of his coat, pulled his cap securely over as much of his hair as he could without looking suspicious, and kept his eyes glued to the sidewalk.

The motorbike pulled into the mouth of an alley directly in front of him and stopped. Jamie was obliged to change directions to go around the motorbike—and the blue suited copper dismounting it. 

“Hold it right there, if you please,” the policeman said, and Jamie stopped, sighed, and faced the man.

The first thing Jamie noticed was the officer’s uniform, as always. At least this one wasn’t the long-skirted kind that that fucker Randall had worn. Still navy blue of course, but the coat was shorter, and his trousers were tucked into tall boots. His leather gauntlets creaked against the handlebars. 

The second thing that Jamie noticed was that, aside from a bit of red wind burn on his cheeks from the chilly ride, the policeman did not fit into Jamie’s mental buckets for what a police officer looked like. From what Jamie could tell despite the uniform, he was slender and fit, his frame well stocked with muscle. A shapely, fine-boned face suggested he was either too much of a coward or too young to have gotten slugged in the face by any thugs lately. But intelligent and rather pretty eyes. What a dangerous combination that was.

"Good afternoon," the cop said. He had a weirdly muddled accent. An immigrant, probably, English to start but brought up around the Chicago vernacular. 

Jamie gave him a terse nod. "Officer."

The policeman rounded the motorbike and approached Jamie with that measured saunter cops seemed to use when they’re about to ask a question that they know is bullshit. "Nice day for a walk, isn't it?"

Jamie looked up at the gray afternoon clouds. It was cold and would be pissing rain before he made it home. "If ye say so."

The officer, who still hadn't introduced himself or given any indication why he had stopped him, gave Jamie a level stare that was uncomfortably penetrating. “Where are you headed?”

_Is he serious right now?_ Jamie gave him a tight, annoyed smirk. “Thought I’d rob a bank. Want to tag along?”

“Is that meant to be a joke, Mister…?” 

“Capone,” Jamie said immediately. “Al Capone.”

The policeman was growing irritated and his clenched jaw gave Jamie a thrill of satisfaction. “I see. There’s a lot of Italians from Scotland, are there? What’s your name?”

Well, that flipped every antagonistic switch in Jamie’s brain. He crossed his arms and sized up the officer. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

The cop coughed and cleared his throat, his windburned cheeks flushing redder, and he opened his jacket to reveal his badge. “Patrolman Grey,” he said. “Badge number one-seven-two-nine. And you are?”

Jamie shrugged. “Aye, fair’s fair.” He fingered the revolver in his pocket. Jamie was reasonably certain he wouldn’t need it if _Patrolman Grey_ got uppity, having at least fifty pounds on the guy, all muscle. “Name’s Malcolm.”

“And your last name?” 

“That is my last name. Alexander Malcolm.” Jesus, where was the Chicago police department recruiting these days anyway? He kept his hands in his pockets but didn’t make any sudden moves. Surely Grey couldn’t be slow in movement too? “Is there a problem, Patrolman Grey?”

Grey didn’t flinch under Jamie’s surly gaze. Interesting. “You tell me, Mr. Malcolm. Bit unusual to be taking a casual stroll in the middle of the workday.”

“Och, I didnae ken ye were the truancy officer. Why did ye no’ say so in the first place?”

The policeman narrowed his eyes at him, and Jamie had to admit to himself that Grey at least possessed enough common sense and experience to keep his cool when antagonized. Rare trait in most of the men he knew in general and the policemen he’d had the misfortune of dealing with in particular. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Malcolm?”

Ah, there it was. Patrolman Grey suspected him of bootlegging. Jamie did, of course, or had, plenty of times. He was the MacKenzie family’s ace in the hole. He was their primary muscle, the de facto leader in any situation in which Dougal himself wasn’t present. 

But today, Jamie wasn’t Uncle Dougal’s sharp-witted mule wrangler. Today, he was a man hard on his luck, just trying to get home without catching a cold. “Why, Patrolman Grey. Have ye no’ heard? There’s a prohibition on. We’re all moral now. I dinnae suppose ye have any probable cause in yer saddlebag there, do ye?” Jamie inclined his head toward the motorcycle.

Grey’s jaw tightened again, the muscles on one side flexing visibly. “Have a good day, Mr. Malcolm.”

“Da!” Brianna squealed and ran at him. “You’re home early!”

Jamie picked up his daughter and held her close, breathing in the clean smell of her and letting the grit of the factory and the stink of failure fall away. “Aye, _a chuisle_. I missed ye so.” 

Murtagh came into the foyer, took one look at him, and his face fell into a momentary expression of consummate disappointment. He collected himself though, schooled his features, and soldiered on for Brianna’s sake. “I’ll bet yer da wants to get clean and have a hot meal. What say we start rattling ‘round in the kitchen until supper appears, aye?”

Brianna kissed Jamie’s grimy cheek then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “You do smell like burnt metal. What did you do all day?”

Jamie narrowed his eyes and took on a conspiratorial air, leaning close to whisper. “I made swords for the goblin king.”

His daughter laughed and shook her head. “You know I’m too big to believe in fairy tales, Da. But you are funny.”

He frowned “Ye dinna believe I made swords for the goblin king?”

Brianna laughed and shook her head. 

“Aye, weel. I suppose ye’re right.” Jamie set his daughter back on her feet and she scurried off to the kitchen

Murtagh gave him a sympathetic look that Jamie might have punched directly off his face if he had been literally anyone but his godfather. “I’m sorry, lad.”

Jamie shrugged and shook his head. “I dinna ken what else to do. I’ll try again on Monday.”


	4. Chapter 4

_One last job_. Jamie had lost track of how many _one last jobs_ he'd run over the past four months. They always came at the most opportune time, though, just after getting fired from an honest one. Friday afternoon he’d walk home a failure. He’d spend Saturday cleaning the house with Brianna, playing with her dolls, or drawing pictures on every scrap of paper they could get their hands on. And then Sunday after church, Dougal would pull Jamie aside, give him a time and place, and agree that this was _the absolute last time_. 

So the wee hours of Monday or Wednesday would see Jamie dressed in a dark suit, overseeing the offloading of some quantity of expensive whisky or moonshine or deadly rotgut. Money and threats would change hands, and then he would set the mules and bootleggers to their task of hauling the goods to the speakeasies and private buyers in Chicago. Then, he’d have to collect more money, deliver more threats, and hope he didn’t have to pay off any police. No one double crossed the MacKenzies in general or Fortnight Fraser in particular. Those who did, didn’t live long. Periodically, Jamie would have to beat a man half to death to remind the petty crooks and thugs on Dougal’s payroll who was in charge.

But this job, this one that was supposed to be the next _last one_ … It was destined for disaster from the very beginning. 

Brianna ran through the shallow snow in the churchyard, playing tag or catch with some of the other children. Distant cousins or Irish kids who had been too still and quiet for too long. It wasn't a large catholic church, but the congregation was almost entirely immigrant families, like the MacKenzies.

While most everyone else invited each other to lunch or made plans for a nice Sunday dinner, Dougal slipped a folded sheet of paper into Jamie’s hand. “One last one for ye, lad. I ken money’s been tight.”

Money actually hadn’t been that tight between what Jamie had managed to squirrel away since he’d gotten out of prison and the odd jobs he found here and there. And Murtagh had been helping, hustling pool or cards, sharing what he could spare. Still, there were groceries to buy, and Brianna had nearly outgrown her best pair of shoes and her dresses were getting a bit short.

While Brianna ran off her energy, Jamie unfolded the paper, a list of buyers. It was mostly comprised of the regulars: a couple of wealthy men who just couldn’t go without their nightly libations or needed to keep their mistresses plied with champagne. The speakeasies willing to take whatever they could get, the small time dealers who had somehow managed to earn Dougal’s trust. And at the bottom of the list was a name that Jamie recognized, but not from previous business. _Disaster_.

“Hubert Bowles?” Jamie asked, more than a little incredulous. “Is he no’ the new State’s Attorney for Cook County?”

“Aye, the same,” Dougal had replied. “Dinna fash, lad. He’s been vetted.”

“Vetted? By whom?” The last thing Jamie wanted to do was put his men in unnecessary danger. And the _absolute_ last thing he wanted to do was walk directly into a sting and go down for a crime he actually had committed this time. “If anything happens to me, Dougal, Brianna—”

“Dinna lecture me.” Dougal’s face went hard and stern. “I ken what’s at stake for ye. Murdo the Spy says he’s dirty. It’s a legitimate job.”

“Why do ye trust Murdo?” Jamie asked. “Ye ken he’s a cop.”

Dougal laughed. “Aye, he’s a cop. He’s a terrible cop. But he does ken who’s square and who’s not, at least.”

Murdo the Spy was an undercover police officer. Everyone in the family knew it, they’d known it before he’d made it in, though Jamie was a little fuzzy on the details of that particular encounter. It had happened while he was in prison. Murdo wasn’t very sneaky, that was for sure, no matter how hard he tried. But the poor thing, green as a sapling, had a nearly endless supply of information to feed back to the police—virtually all fabricated of course—and seemed to think he was doing a great job. None of the MacKenzies, including Jamie and Dougal himself, had the heart to tell him that they all knew he was an undercover cop. At the end of the day, the family likely got more information about the police than the police did about them. Well, the family likely got more true and useful information than the police did, at any rate.

“I want ye to run the Bowles job personally,” Dougal said.

Jamie opened his mouth to protest, to refuse, to argue, to do anything resembling putting up a fight. But Dougal fixed him with that hard stare and set his jaw. There was a body count in that stare and Jamie shut his mouth. It was that stare ten years ago that had told Jamie all he needed to know about how Dougal’s brother Collum had died.

“Aye then,” Jamie said at last, biting out the words. “But I choose my own mules. I do it my way or else you run it yerself.” 

Dougal MacKenzie could not risk running jobs himself and still maintain his public presence in the midst of the Chicago elite and Jamie knew that. Dougal uncrossed his arms preparatory to leave. “Fine. Dinna fail me, lad.”


	5. Chapter 5

The fact that Neil Stapleton immediately recognized Alexander Malcolm as an alias made John Grey’s blood boil. “Oh, yeah, I know him,” he said, shrugging in dismissal.

“And?” Grey prompted. “What do you know of him?”

Stapleton scoffed. “You know the MacKenzies?”

Grey held his temper very carefully in check. “Of course. Who doesn’t?” The MacKenzies were about as well known and powerful as Al Capone’s Chicago Outfit. The main difference was that the Scots were far more secretive about their inner workings and had fewer politicians in their pockets. Which was actually quite frightening, if Grey thought about it. Less political leverage and that much power meant they were just that well organized and ruthless.

“Malcolm’s the name Fortnight Fraser uses when it’s not family business.”

“Wait, that’s the same man?” Grey knew the name Fraser. He’d been wrongfully convicted of murder more than eight years ago and spent five years in Cook County. “What the hell kind of name is Fortnight?” Grey furrowed his brow, trying to put it all together.

“That’s his nickname, genius,” Neil Stapleton clarified with far more attitude than was strictly necessary. “Jamie ‘Fortnight’ Fraser.”

Grey’s frown deepened. As far as appellations went, it wasn’t the snappiest, though he did have to admit that it rolled off the tongue. “Obviously. But why the hell do they call him Fortnight?”

Stapleton shrugged. “I asked Murdo once. He said it’s because he’s a fortnight tall.”

“What—” Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. “What in the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I dunno, man. He’s six foot-four? That’s all I got.” Stapleton knocked back his shitty cup of coffee from the lounge, then arched an eyebrow at Grey. “You had enough hunting down good cops now, you ready to focus on criminals for a change?”

Grey shot Stapleton a dirty glare. “You’re a cunt, Neil. Did you know that?”

Stapleton shrugged, but the insult had the desired effect and he wandered off, probably to annoy someone else.

It was a low blow and it stung, but Stapleton only had part of the story. Not that it mattered. Even the people in the department who did know the whole story weren’t exactly in the John Grey fan club. He’d broken the cardinal rule and presented evidence against another officer. Most of the cops in Chicago were crooked or at least willing to ignore certain legal constraints so long as it benefitted themselves, but Randall had been a special kind of awful. Nonetheless, his brothers in blue didn’t take very kindly to Grey bringing up how awful Randall was, leading to his arrest—and subsequent, brutal murder in prison—and the release of a known criminal. Grey didn’t believe for a second that Fraser was innocent, just that he was serving time for a crime he didn’t commit. But what the hell else was Grey supposed to have done?

Randall didn’t know that Grey had been there when that man had died until John had presented his testimony. The fact that Grey was still alive was a goddamn miracle. The price he’d paid, however, had been his reputation and every last ally on the force. His captain had told him directly that the only reason he didn’t sack Grey was because he expected he’d be killed in the line of duty within a year anyway. Even Grey was shocked that that hadn't been the case.

Grey tugged on his big leather gloves on his way out of the precinct. The captain had put him on a motorbike because everyone flat refused to be partnered with him. He spent most of his time running down speeders and doing motor traffic enforcement, which was boring work. So, Grey frequently stopped and spoke to people, building a rapport with those who lived in the neighborhoods he frequented, serving as a deterrent to criminal activity. 

Unfortunately, neither was often successful. The neighborhood Grey was assigned to patrol had no love of police officers, no matter how nice he was. And the sorts of people that were bold or stupid enough to commit larceny or assault in broad daylight were likewise too bold or too stupid to be deterred by one lonely motorcycle cop.

Grey made his way to his motorbike, parked in the motorpool behind the station. He stopped next to it and sighed. Most days, Grey was subjected to some sort of prank or hazing. Usually it was something relatively innocuous, like a snide comment or rude insinuation. Sometimes his locker was tampered with or small items missing—or inappropriate items planted amongst his belongings. Occasionally, they said terrible things about his late wife. Those were the worst, and more than once had succeeded in goading Grey into throwing the first punch. Those had mostly stopped since Siverly had implied that Grey’s son wasn’t his; Grey had relieved him of three teeth and broken the hell out of his nose.

Today’s prank was dirty motor oil on the seat of his motorcycle. Well, at least it would clean. Grey fished an old rag from his saddlebag and mopped up the oil. It was tempting as hell to leave the rag on someone else’s motorbike—even if it wasn’t the person who’d left the oil, odds were he was in support of the prank, or at least complicit. Instead, he folded the rag so as much exposed surface was clean as possible and found a suitable enough place for it in the saddlebag again. At least without a partner, there was never the chance that the person Grey was stuck with for his entire shift was the ass who’d attempted to sabotage him.

It was a quiet morning, for a Monday. Grey issued one speeding citation to a frazzled businessman who used polite words but a rude tone. He greeted a few teenagers on their way to school, and waved at a bank manager on his way to work. Grey made a right past the primary school, smiling at the young children's excitement in response to the loud engine of his motorcycle. Then a flash of red hair caught his eye.

Alexander Malcolm. Or, rather, James Fraser. He strolled away from the school gates, his back to Grey and hands thrust into his pockets. It would be stupid to stop him. Just because he wasn't doing something illegal now didn't mean he wasn't a criminal. But still, only a rookie and an idiot would knowingly harass Fortnight Fraser. He should ride on by. Don't even cast him a second glance. It didn't matter that he'd lied to Grey's face. It didn't matter that he was unfairly attractive for a damn mobster, with a face like a Greek god, and dear Lord, were his biceps straining the sleeves of his coat?

_Oh, Christ._

All reason abandoned Grey, and he pulled his motorcycle across a driveway in Fraser's path and parked it, just like he had when they'd first met. He dismounted the bike and met Fraser's eyes. 

For a moment, Fraser scowled down at him, then recognition flashed across his handsome face and the scowl transformed to annoyed derision. "Patrolman Grey. Come to protect the schoolchildren from dangerous jaywalkers, have ye?"

Grey gave him a tight smile but refused to give Fraser the satisfaction of a reaction. "Good morning, Mr. Fraser."

Fraser's face closed off immediately, revealing absolutely nothing, except for his eyes. His fierce eyes tore directly through Grey, shredded him, sent all of his baser instincts to the front line. 

"Oh, I beg your pardon," Grey said with a scoff. "Mr. Malcolm. Forgive me."

After a long pause full of more of that deeply penetrating glare, Fraser said, "What seems to be the problem, officer?"

There was no problem, they both knew that. Grey was being ridiculous and petty, but goddamn absolutely all of it to hell, just the sight of Fraser flipped all of Grey's switches. Including the one that apparently turned him into precisely the prick Fraser believed him to be. "What business do you have at a primary school, Mr. Fraser? Er, Malcolm."

If looks could kill, Grey was a dead man. "I still havenae robbed that bank and it's on the way." Fraser closed the gap between them, his steps slow and menacing. Sheer stubbornness was all that kept Grey's feet firmly planted on the sidewalk. 

"I ken what ye're implying, Patrolman Grey, and I dinna appreciate it." Fraser's voice was barely above a whisper and dripping with malice. "Do ye ken what happened to the man I met in Cook County who _did_ prey on children?"

Grey shook his head, feeling like all sorts of a wretched ass.

"Weel, let's just say, his life sentence didnae take long."

For a long time, they stared each other down. Grey broke first. "I apologize, that was out of line."

Fraser narrowed his eyes at Grey, but the worst of the sharpness has passed. "I may be a great many terrible things, Patrolman Grey. But I'm no' that."

Grey wished the sidewalk would open up and swallow him, but no such luck. Had he lost his entire mind? What _demon_ had led him to suggest such a despicable thing? "There's no excuse, and I am sorry. Call it an… overprotective father's paranoia, if you'd be so kind." _Why in the name of all that is holy can I not stop talking? Jesus, I might as well give him my home address and shift rotation while I'm at it._

"Bye, Da!" a young girl's voice called from the schoolyard. Grey didn't look to see who she was or who she spoke to. 

Without taking his eyes off Grey, Fraser called, "Have a good day, sweetheart."

_Oh_. 

"I see," Grey muttered sheepishly. 

Fraser's hard features softened into something that on another man might have resembled a smile. "I can forgive a father's paranoia. I'm no stranger to it myself."

"No, I imagine you're not." Grey stepped aside, out of Fraser's path. "I'll leave you to your business. Good day to you, Mr. Malcolm."

Fraser gave him one last, hard glare, then went on his way without a backwards glance. As soon as he was around the corner, Grey drove his fist into the trunk of a tree. Not terribly hard, but pain shot through his knuckles and into his wrist. “Shit,” he hissed. “Idiot.” Grey had far too much experience to be so careless, so stupid. What on earth had gotten into him that he was so driven to antagonize one of the most dangerous mobsters in Chicago? Christ, more than Chicago; there were likely fewer men as dangerous and powerful this side of the Mississippi River. 

Grey swung his leg over his motorbike and mounted it, and dug his leather-clad fingertips against his forehead. Fraser _was_ a criminal, there was no doubt about it. And, Grey’s gut told him, the linchpin of the MacKenzie clan. Without Fraser, the MacKenzie crime syndicate would likely succumb to in-fighting and dissolve, leaving just petty crooks and Capone’s Outfit to mop them up. The police would hardly have to do anything. Just get Fraser off the streets, and the Italians would handle the rest.

Grey sighed. Not that the local police _would_ do anything, himself excluded. The entire force was dirty in some way or another, from city hall, to the state’s attorney, to the chief of police, even Grey’s own captain. Every attempt Grey had made thus far to get the Feds involved had been overturned or sabotaged. He’d even asked his brother Hal to call in every favor he could from his position in the Justice Department, and _those_ had gone precisely nowhere. No, everyone seemed to think that Chicago was lost and they were just biding their time. Until what, precisely, Grey had no idea, but there it was.

Heaving a sigh, he kick-started his motorcycle and got himself turned around toward the main thoroughfare. Well. Grey’s mother had raised her sons to be many things, but a quitter wasn’t one of them. When it was clear, Grey turned out into the street and back onto his beat. He’d just have to keep trying, wouldn’t he? He was very unlikely to catch Fraser in the act of something big enough to bring him down, but he’d slip up eventually. And when he did, Grey would be there to haul him in.

But what if he didn’t slip up? Fraser was smart, that much Grey could tell from their two conversations. And not just street-smart either. There was something about the way he carried himself, in the way he spoke maybe, that made Grey think he’d perhaps had a very good, formal education. And dear God in heaven, he was attractive to boot. Smart, handsome, and deadly. 

_Boy, do you know how to pick ‘em._


	6. Chapter 6

January on Lake Michigan was positively brutal. Jamie was accustomed to harsh winters from growing up in the Highlands of Scotland, and the brutal wind tearing across the water carved into him like a knife. He checked his wristwatch again. The boat was over an hour late and his men were getting nervous. If there had been a patrol near the border… 

Jamie paced the little pier, debating calling it a bust and scattering the men before the authorities showed up. If the boat had been stopped, and the MacKenzies on the shore implicated, it would be a fast-track to a federal case. And when Dougal found out about it, they’d all be lucky to rot in Alcatraz because their life expectancies would all run out.

“Fortnight,” Angus hissed from the water’s edge, drawing Jamie’s attention out to the frigid lake, inky black in the dark night. 

Squinting, Jamie at last made out the shape of the boat. It fell silent as they cut the engine and coasted in, and Jamie’s men caught the lines to tie it off. The bulky form of Rupert MacKenzie leapt off the deck and to the pier. “What kept ye, man?” Jamie demanded.

Rupert fished a roughly folded piece of paper from the inside of his coat and thrust it at Jamie. “Aye, nice to see ye too, cousin. Feds on a pleasure cruise, we had to go the long way round.”

Jamie’s eyes were well adjusted to the minute light from the sliver of moon high overhead, and he skimmed the paper. Everything accounted for, the manifest matched the one Dougal had given him on Sunday. “Ye werenae spotted, then?”

“Nay, they didnae ken we were there. Everything’s square,” Rupert said. He was a good mule, and commanded the respect of his men. Dougal trusted him almost as much as he trusted Jamie, and he’d successfully made the run from Canada hundreds of times over the years.

“Good man.” Jamie folded up the sheet of paper and shoved it into his jacket, pulled out a wad of cash, and tucked it into Rupert’s coat pocket. Swatting him on the arm hard enough to send him stumbling, Jamie turned his attention to the men unloading the crates from the boat. “Step lively, gentlemen. Geordie, that one and the crate of single malt goes in my car, no’ wi’ Rufus. Aye, there’s a good lad.”

State’s attorney Hubert Bowles lived in a rather large house on the outskirts of Chicago. He had one of those circular drives that was excellent for a quick getaway but hell for stealth. Jamie was met at the peak of the driveway by a man wearing an off-the-rack suit and a confused, furrowed brow. “Delivery?” he asked.

Jamie nodded. “Aye. Newly imported.” The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, alarm bells sounding in his head. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

The man shrugged and waved him on. “Around to the back.”

“Did he seem on edge to ye?” Angus asked from the passenger seat. 

“Aye.” Jamie’s jaw was tight as he drove to the back of the house. It was an unassuming enough cellar door, off the kitchen. There was a car parked near it, the engine was switched off but the doors were open. “I dinnae care for the look of this at all.”

Angus shook his head but said nothing.

“Let’s go canny, aye?” Jamie said. “You carry the goods and I’ll cover ye.”

“Aye, sure, I’ll do all the heavy lifting, ye ox.” Angus was kidding of course, filling the space with something other than nervousness.

“That’s true, I am. But ye ken I’m the better shot and I dinna want ye shooting me in the back by mistake.” Jamie parked the car and turned it off. Someone should have been there to meet them, tell them where to stash the booze… 

Footsteps approached on the steps leading from the cellar. Jamie and Angus pried the interior facing off the doors of the car. Angus got his open first and started pulling out the bottles stashed there. The panels came off with a little leverage applied to tiny notches hidden in the polished wood, and Jamie, with his large hands, always had a hell of a time with it. He swore, trying to keep his cool with the sense of urgency and trouble hanging like a sword over his neck. 

“Fortnight,” Angus said, tilting his chin up to indicate the space behind Jamie. He was more tense than usual, his hand going to the pistol in his coat.

Jamie straightened and turned toward the cellar door. A man in the same suit as the guy out front backed away from three men, one of whom carried a tommy gun. They all had dark hair and impeccable suits. Shiny shoes without a scuff glimmered in the harsh light of the edison bulbs hung outside the kitchen door. They looked like Outfit men. They noticed Jamie and Angus and their car and rounded on Bowles’ man. “Hey, what’s the big idea? Your boss double dipping? Huh?” 

The man cast a glance from Jamie to the thug who’d spoken, and held his hands up in surrender. “I had no idea they were coming, we’ve never done business with these men before. Not that I know of. I’m sure Mr. Bowles would be willing to—”

“Maybe Mr. Bowles needs to be reminded who he works for. Mr. Capone ain’t gonna be happy about this.”

Bloody fucking shit, they _were_ Outfit. How in the hell did Dougal not know that Bowles was already in bed with Capone? Jamie motioned for Angus to keep his weapon low and steady, and approached the trio of men. Forget avoiding failure, at this point getting home to Brianna was his only priority. “Gentlemen, it appears there’s been a misunderstanding.” 

Tommy Gun trained his barrel on the gravel at Jamie’s feet, and Jamie stopped his advance. “That’s close enough, pal.”

It was the shortest of the men who spoke, obviously nursing a Napoleon complex. “You’re damn straight, there’s been a misunderstanding. You ain’t part of the Outfit. You a MacKenzie?”

“Now, gents, I’m sure we can work out an equitable solution,” Jamie said. When Tommy Gun’s eyes flicked to Angus, Jamie took another small step toward him. “Everyone kens this is Capone’s turf and we have nay claim on it.”

The leader grinned, realization lighting his beady eyes. “I know you, don’t I? You’re Fortnight Fraser. I know a guy was in Cook County with you.” He shook his head and blew smoke from his cigarette through his nose. “Geeze, he said you was big, but Jesus. What kinda stupid name is Fornight anyway?”

Jamie ignored the questions, let them fall to the ground lifeless and rhetorical. “Let us unload, no’ but a few bottles. And we’ll give ye ten percent for yer trouble and ten percent for yer boss.” Tommy twitched again and Jamie advanced another inch or two. It was enough. He had a far longer reach than any other man here. It had to be enough. 

“Or better yet,” Napoleon said, flicking a cigarette to the ground and squashing it out with the toe of his shoe. “We kill you both, take the booze, and one hundred percent, _and_ the car, and dump your bodies in the river. How’s that for a deal? Joey, do it.”

Tommy Gun—Joey, evidently—was quick. But Jamie was quicker. By the time he had the gun pointed at Jamie’s chest, he’d rushed him. His fist closed around the barrel and he shoved upward, sending a spray of automatic fire in a high arc. The crack of pistol shots cried out, dull under Jamie’s ringing ears.

Wrenching the gun from Joey’s grip, Jamie slammed the stock into the thug’s face. His nose shattered and blood poured from his face. A quick kick to the gut, and he aimed the stolen gun at Joey. He fired two bursts into his chest. The damn dirty cartridge jammed, and Jamie tossed the useless gun onto Joey’s body.

Angus was actually a decent shot, Jamie’s teasing notwithstanding, and he managed to drop the bigger of the three Outfit men, leaving Napoleon aiming a shiny .38 special at Angus. Jamie rushed him, Napoleon squeezed the trigger, and Jamie drove him to the ground. They grappled for the pistol, Jamie finally managing to knock it aside even if he couldn’t get his hands on it. 

All Jamie could see was red. Blood, rage, a burning need to snuff out this fucker who couldn’t just let them go about their damn business. 

The little Italian had a thick neck, but Jamie had big hands. The man struggled and thrashed, and Jamie squeezed harder. Pushed harder. Felt something break under his hands.

“Fortnight!” Angus’ voice was strained, pained. But this bastard wasn’t dead yet, so he held on.

“Jamie, man, where are ye?”

Pained. Angus. _Fucking shite_.

Gasping for breath from the exertion, Jamie shoved himself off the immobile body and sprinted back to the car. His ears still rang. His heart still hammered in his chest, all he could hear beside some terrible shrill ringing. 

Jamie skidded into the gravel next to Angus, who had collapsed on the far side of the car. His shirt was soaked in blood, nearly black in the pitch night. “Christ, Angus. Stay wi’ me.” All the color had drained from Angus’s face and he couldn’t seem to focus his eyes on Jamie. His grip on Jamie’s hand was weak and trembling. He didn’t have long. _Oh God,_ he didn’t have long.

“Up wi’ ye, man.” Jamie hauled him up. Angus wasn’t MacKenzie big, but he was sturdy and heavy, and the best Jamie could do for him was drag him into the passenger seat of the car. Pausing only to jam the door panel back in place, he leapt into the driver seat, switched on the engine and tore across the gravel for the street. “Dinna die on me, Angus.”


	7. Chapter 7

Angus was dead before they made it back into town. Jamie pushed the big roadster as hard as it could go, broke every traffic law in the book, and it still wasn’t enough. When Angus’s grip slackened and fell away from Jamie’s hand, he wept angry, hot tears. The fury built itself back up in Jamie’s chest. Dougal. He _had_ to know. Had to have known that Capone wouldn’t let go of Bowles. 

The sky was turning orange when Jamie pulled into Dougal’s driveway. Dougal sat on the front porch, drinking coffee in his shirtsleeves. He came down the steps and his face contorted into an anguished grimace. “Och, Angus,” he said. “Poor bastard.”

Jamie climbed out of the car and Dougal came to him, arms spread in invitation. Jamie pulled his left fist back and punched Dougal in the face. His uncle staggered back, swearing and spitting blood and furious, his coffee cup smashing on the ground. 

It took a lot of effort to keep from throwing another fist, and Jamie’s entire body shook, rebelling against holding himself back. “I told ye I was done,” Jamie growled. “I fucking _told ye_ I was done.”

Dougal’s face went red with fury. “And I told ye not to fail! Did ye even get paid before ye got our kin shot?”

Jamie did throw another punch that time, and Dougal seized his wrist, and dragged it back into an armlock. He hadn’t done that since Jamie was a lad of sixteen or so. Of course, he’d not attacked his uncle since then either. 

“Have ye lost yer fucking mind?” Dougal demanded, his breath hot in Jamie’s ear. “Raising yer hand to me. Christ Almighty, ye’re lucky ye’re my sister’s son, or I’d kill ye and no’ bat an eye.”

“Like ye’ll no’ bat an eye over Angus.” At the last second, Jamie aborted his initial urge, which was to bring up Collum. But there was nothing Jamie could do for Collum now and there was even less he could do for his daughter if his smart mouth got him killed.

Dougal shoved Jamie, and he caught his footing after a stagger. “All ye had to do was deliver two crates to Bowles’ house. Just the two. And collect payment, and be on yer way. At what point did yer instructions include killing yer own man?”

Jamie slid a hand into his coat pocket and slipped his fingers through the handle of his brass knuckles. Even if he didn’t intend to use them—and he was angry enough that it was still a damn good possibility—they were a reassuring weight in his hand. “Ye kent Capone’s Outfit would be there. How could ye no’?” 

Dougal’s gray eyebrows shot up. “The Outfit was there?”

“Aye, who the hell did ye think shot Angus, the butler?”

“I thought Capone made his deliveries on Thursdays.” Dougal’s scowl softened. “Ye mean this wasnae the feds?”

Jamie gaped at his uncle. “What in the devil do ye mean, _ye thought Capone made his deliveries on Thursdays!_ So ye did ken Bowles already belonged to Capone, and ye still sent me there! Ye unbelievable shite.” Jamie abandoned his brass knuckles and drew his revolver on Dougal, leveling it at his chest from no more than a few paces away. His heart thundered in his ears and all he could see was red-hot rage. Absolute disgust. His daughter could have woken up an orphan because of Dougal. "Gi' me one good reason not to kill ye where ye stand." Jamie's voice was surprisingly calm. 

Dougal barely blinked, just directed that body-count-stare at him as if it were a weapon. Because it was. “Power abhors a vacuum, lad. If ye kill me, what do ye think will happen?” If Dougal took one step towards him, Jamie would squeeze the trigger and feel absolutely no remorse. Perhaps sensing this, his uncle kept his feet planted and held his ground. “If ye bring me down, what happens then? To you? And yer daughter? Hmm? Ye think Murtagh can protect her while ye’re fighting the MacKenzies that are loyal to me _and_ the Outfit who are gagging to seize control? Not to mention the police, who already think ye run this show, thanks to me.”

_Thanks to me._ All thanks to Dougal that Angus was dead in the passenger seat of his car. All thanks to Dougal that the delivery had gone south. All thanks to Dougal that Jamie was even in Chicago, chasing opportunity and money and power. 

All thanks to Dougal that Jamie could send money back to his sister in Scotland. And if it weren’t for Dougal, Jamie would never have met Claire, and Brianna… 

“Put it away, Jamie.” Dougal spoke calmly, a command. “Put it away, now. There’s still work to do. And ye willnae shoot me, will ye?”

So much. So very fucking much of Jamie’s life since he was sixteen had been dictated by what Dougal said, what Dougal thought, what Dougal wanted. He needed Jamie. Serving the family, Jamie had worth, value. Out on his own, he was nothing. No connections, no one to respect him, no one to help him. _Ye cannae expect a tree to grow wi’out its roots_ , Dougal had told him, time and time again. 

Time and time again, to keep Jamie close, keep him beholden to the family that needed him more than Jamie needed it.

Jamie shook his head and backed away toward the door of his car. “No.”

“There’s a good lad,” Dougal said. “I kent ye wouldn’t. Now put the gun away before ye cause a scene.”

“Oh no, I will shoot ye,” Jamie said, having absolutely no idea where the conviction had come from. “I will shoot ye, and make no mistake of it.” He did lower his gun then but kept it in his left hand, still ready. “This is the absolute last straw, Dougal. Dinnae call me. Dinnae visit me. Ye stay away from me, and ye stay away from Brianna, and ye stay away from my sister.” Jamie put his pistol back into his pocket and slid into the driver seat. We’ll never see each other again, do ye understand?”

Dougal slammed both of his hands on the hood of the car. “What are ye about, aye? What will ye do without the family? If ye leave now, that’s it, lad. I’m no’ the enemy ye want.”

The only thing that kept Jamie from slamming the car into reverse and backing away with the throttle open was that he didn’t want to watch Angus’s corpse slam into the dash. “Aye, then, Uncle.” Jamie’s palms were slick and sweaty on the steering wheel. This couldn’t be happening. Was he actually doing this? _Jesus Christ._ “Call Alec, tell him to meet me at the funeral home. And then get fucked.” 

Jamie backed the car away from Dougal, then pulled into the street. He looked over his shoulder one time to see his uncle staring after him, every last bridge between them completely engulfed in flame.


	8. Chapter 8

Dougal MacKenzie had left absolutely nothing to chance when he’d come to America over ten years ago. He’d brought everything he needed with him, or sent for it immediately upon settling in Chicago. Brains, brawn, contacts, a lawyer, money. And Old Alec. Dougal had known what he was coming to America to do, knew it was a bloody, deadly business. 

It really should have been an excellent insight into Dougal’s character, but no one seemed to bat an eye. Jamie had been too horrifically ill for the entire voyage and the landing at Ellis Island to connect the dots. Until now, Jamie had just thought his uncle pragmatic, sensible. He planned for everything.

But what sort of man brought a damn mortician on his quest for the so-called “American Dream?” Dougal MacKenzie, that was who. The kind of man who knew people would die often enough to warrant a discreet mortician on the payroll. 

Alec met Jamie at the receiving door of his funeral home, yawning. The sun was up now, at least, but that made it more of an urgent matter to get poor Angus inside. Getting him out of the passenger seat was quite the challenge with rigor mortis well-set in. Jamie did get him pulled from the car though, eventually, and carted inside and safely away from prying eyes. Alec knew the drill. He didn’t ask any questions whatsoever, except what he needed to do his job. He knew how Angus had died, and it didn’t matter. Dougal paid well for it to not matter. 

It wasn't a long drive back home, and Jamie spent it lost in thought. Fear threatened to settle in and get comfortable behind his breastbone. A cold, terrified dread of what Dougal would do next. No one double crossed Dougal MacKenzie and lived to tell about it. And as far as Jamie knew, no one as close to Dougal as he was had ever tried it. 

About halfway home, a sudden horror struck Jamie, the fear he’d been staving off digging in. What if Dougal went after Brianna? Murtagh was there, and Murtagh's principle loyalty was to Jamie, but what if Dougal didn't come alone? Murtagh would have no way of knowing all that Jamie had just burnt to the ground. He'd be completely caught off guard, which meant he and Brianna would be vulnerable. 

Jamie swallowed down around his rising gorge, let his racing thoughts fade into the background, and sped the rest of the way home, hoping to God he didn't get pulled over for the speeding, of all the stupid things, with a blood stained passenger seat.

Finally turning onto his street, he was relieved to see that there was nothing obviously amiss. Jamie parked his car, realized his overcoat had blood on it, and tugged it off. He laid it hastily over the bloody seat and slammed the car door shut. The urge to get inside, to see that Brianna and Murtagh were safe drove him to walk faster. His imagination treated him to every conceivable horror about what _might_ lay inside. He hit the front door at a run and barrelled through it.

At the kitchen table, Brianna shrieked, startled. “Da!”

Murtagh dropped a skillet on the floor with a terrible clatter, the bacon in it sizzling to the floor. His right hand went behind his back, reappearing with his revolver before the skillet settled onto the hardwood, scorching the floorboards. “Jesus!” Murtagh lowered his weapon but didn’t put it away, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Jamie, where are ye going?”

“Stay here.” Jamie tore through the house, that terror driving him on. He _had_ to see for himself that there was no one else there. Had to see that all the doors and windows were locked.

“Da? What are you doing?”

“Jamie, what’s amiss?”

Only when he’d seen that every last room and closet in his house was empty did Jamie go back to the kitchen. Brianna sat dutifully in her chair at the table, dabbing up a puddle of sloshed orange juice. She stared at Jamie, worry written all over her face, heartbreaking in its maturity, and Jamie picked her up, crushing her against him. 

Twenty-four stressful hours without sleep—filled with mortal peril for at least the last eight—caught up with him, and Jamie collapsed into Brianna’s chair, still holding her tight to his chest. He breathed in the faint flowery scent of her shampoo and the stronger aroma of maple syrup from her half-eaten short stack of pancakes. Her arms were tight around his neck, her face buried into his shoulder, her little body tense with a fear she couldn’t name or understand. Jamie choked back his tears because once they started they’d never stop again. 

Rising from cleaning up the spilled bacon grease from the floor, Murtagh caught Jamie’s eyes over Brianna’s shoulder. His silvery brows rose in a silent question, and Jamie just stared back at him, hopeless, lost. Then he squeezed his eyes shut again, just for a moment, and pulled all the shattered pieces of himself back together again.

Jamie let out a sigh and relaxed his grip on his daughter. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Jamie answered, trying for a smile. “What’s say we play hooky today, aye? We havenae spent a whole day together in a while, have we?”

Most eight-year-olds would be excited to skip school with their parent’s permission, but Brianna just gave a sober shake of her head. “Alright.” She kissed Jamie’s cheek, making a face and giggling when his stubble tickled her lips. “Do you want pancakes? I can help Papa Murtagh make more.”

Jamie ran his hand over her flaming red hair. “Nay, but thank ye. I’m no’ hungry just now.” He patted her knee, and she slid off his lap and hopped up into another chair. Jamie slid her breakfast in front of her and gratefully accepted the steaming cup of black coffee that Murtagh plunked down on the table next to his hand. “Did ye have a quiet night?” Jamie asked his godfather.

“Aye, we did,” Murtagh answered from the range, carefully laying fresh bacon in the skillet. “Bree had a wee nightmare, but she went right back to sleep after she calmed down and sang to her Mam and Mama.” Brianna kept a photograph of Claire and Annalise on her bedside table with her rosary. It was their nightly custom to include them in their prayers, and Bree often sang or spoke to them directly. It brought Brianna comfort, and warmed Jamie’s heart to think that they were still alive and with them, at least in a way.

“He taught me to play poker,” Brianna said, popping a bite of pancake into her mouth and licking up the maple syrup that dripped on her lips.

Murtagh shot her a scandalized glare, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling with barely contained mirth. “Such vile treachery!”

Brianna giggled into her glass of juice.

Jamie took a long drink of coffee. It was bitter and strong, but hot and comforting. “Och, Murtagh, the shame. Teaching my sweet lass to gamble.” Jamie shook his head, making disappointed _tsking_ noises. He took another sip and then leaned closer to Bree and asked in an exaggerated whisper, “Did ye win?”

She giggled again and nodded.

“The fiend beat me like a drum.” Murtagh put a plate with a few slices of bacon in the center of the table. “Which reminds me, Jamie. Could ye spot me three dollars? I’ve a wee card shark to pay off.”

Jamie’s eyes went wide and he nearly choked on his coffee. “Three dollars!” He turned his shocked gaze to his daughter, who laughed like a pint-sized maniac. 

“It’s not _my_ fault!” Brianna said, wiping her mouth on her napkin and reaching for a thick piece of bacon. “Papa Murtagh said, ‘Double or nothin,’ and I won on a rich pot.” 

Her Murtagh impression was getting good and Jamie threw his head back and laughed. It was balm for his soul, to laugh and joke with his family—the family that did actually love him—and his tired cheeks started to hurt from all the smiling. “Aye then, we’ll call that yer math lesson for the day.”

Murtagh laid a plate of fried eggs, bacon, and toast in front of Jamie without him asking for it, and then sat across from him with his own plate and cup of coffee. The food smelled delicious, and his stomach growled in response. He took a bite of toast, still warm and a little sweet, smeared thick with butter. Jamie closed his eyes and savored it, the simple pleasure of hot food, good coffee, and his family close by and safe. The relief was ambrosia. He might have wept from the relief of it, and the exhaustion. But that would upset Brianna, so he just enjoyed it. 

No, Dougal wouldn’t punish him. He’d let Jamie go. Sure, he’d probably be cut off, but he’d figure it out. Tomorrow would be easier. He’d take Bree to school, where she’d be safe. And then he’d figure out what to do. He’d find straight, honest work. Maybe at the train yard, or the lumber mill. He had a few things he could sell. And if he had to resort to a little petty larceny, well. It wouldn’t be the first time.


	9. Chapter 9

Jamie was fast running out of options. There probably wasn’t a job in Chicago he couldn’t learn if he didn’t already know it, but after six hours pounding the pavement for over a week, he was damn sick of begging for work. There was a new factory recently opened on the south side of town. It was a long walk, but he couldn’t go home a failure, not again. 

He’d never been dumb or naive enough to think that working for Dougal wasn’t dangerous. He knew it was. He’d known it for a long time. But that had been Dougal’s stipulation for bringing Jamie to America after his father had died. What might his life look like if he’d stayed in Inverness with his sister and her family? If he’d towed the line, stayed put, where would he be? A farmer? A police inspector? Jamie snorted and shook his head. Now, there was a thought. A wild, crazy thought.

No, Jamie had always had his eye out for bigger, better, more. And with Dougal’s connections to distilleries and distributors in Europe, they’d had no trouble making good money fast. 

But Brianna. The lass didn’t deserve to grow up in this life. She shouldn’t have to say goodbye to him every morning before school and be afraid that it was the last time she’d see her father. 

Angus came to mind. Hardly an hour had passed in the last week that Jamie didn’t see poor Angus, covered in blood. And the sound of his breath, thick and gurgling. Jamie didn’t know if he’d bled out or drowned in his own blood. Jamie’s stomach flopped and protested the memory. His palms started sweating, so he pulled his hands out of his pockets to dry off in the freezing January air. Jamie slipped on a patch of ice coming around a corner and caught himself on a lamppost. “Shit.”

“You think I won’t sleep like a baby after killing one no-account beat cop?” 

Jamie looked down the street he’d just turned onto. Across the traffic lanes was a narrow alley, the mouth of it clogged with four or five younger men. They couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, dressed rough. They’d surrounded a police officer with a bloody lip. The cop wore one of the short uniform jackets and tall boots. A motorcycle cop then.

“What I think is that your mother would be awfully upset when she found out you were arrested for loitering and assaulting an officer.” _Son of a bitch._ Patrolman Grey. 

For a moment, Jamie just watched. Maybe Grey could get himself out of this mess that he’d most certainly walked into willingly. Jamie sized up the thugs. He could probably take them without much trouble. They were young, and sure they outnumbered him. But they probably weren’t accustomed to fighting together, and certainly not in a small space like that alley. They’d bottleneck. 

Of course, if one of them had a gun or a knife, there was a good chance they’d kill that buttinsky Grey before Jamie had a chance to knock them all down or chase them off. And then he’d just start some stupid wee turf squabble that wouldn’t be worth Dougal’s time or energy to deal with. 

They weren’t dressed well enough to be part of Capone’s Outfit. Probably just petty thugs looking to make a big name for themselves by killing a cop.

Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Jamie rolled his eyes.

The afternoon sun glinted over one thug’s drawn fist. Brass knuckles. _Shit._

With a heavy sigh, Jamie stalked across the street. They got one more punch in before Jamie made it to the alley. "Weel, now, what did ye lads catch?"

The beating stopped, and the kid with the brass knuckles rounded on Jamie. “Buzz off, Mac. We found ‘em first.” Grey dangled between two of the thugs, each one with a crushing grip on his arm. His shirt was cut—knife, probably—his lip bleeding, the start of an impressive black eye, and he sucked in air like a landed fish. They’d hit him in the gut then.

Jamie clamped one strong hand on the kid’s shoulder. He could feel him twitch and try to shrug away without looking like he was trying to shrug away. To his credit, he didn’t actually wince, but he looked like he wanted to. “Ye ken this is a copper, aye? Do ye no’ ken what that means?”

Boy, this kid was dense. For a second Jamie thought smoke would come out of his ears. “Only good cop’s a dead cop.”

Jamie scoffed. “I didnae say he was a _good_ cop.” Grey scowled but kept his mouth shut. “Who owns the police? Think real hard.”

“Uh. Capone?” It was a different one who spoke this time.

Grey bristled appreciably but there was nothing he could do and he kept silent except for his ragged, pained breathing. _Not completely brainless then._

“Aye, smart lad.” Jamie’s lips spread in a feral grin. “And what do ye suppose will happen after ye murder a cop in cold blood? Ye think Capone’s going to let you join the Outfit?”

“Well…”

“If ye kill this cop like this, the police will be obliged to investigate. Which will put heat on the rest of us.” Jamie did not specify who _us_ was, and he let the word hang in the air for a time. 

“That’s not what Jim said.” It was a different kid who spoke up this time, the most skittish of the bunch. His shifty eyes darted from Jamie to the leader to Grey and back around again. “Jim said if we—”

“Och, tell me ye didnae get recruitment advice from _Jim_.” Jamie had no earthly idea who Jim was, but if he could just get this broken up without anymore bloodshed…

Shifty Eyes turned his attention to the guy with the brass knuckles, looking like he was ready to make like a rabbit. 

“You ain’t with the Outfit,” Brass Knuckles said, accusation in his voice.

“Oh, did I no’ introduce myself?” Jamie asked, his words dripping with sarcasm. “I beg yer pardon. Call me Fortnight.”

Brass Knuckles sneered. “What kinda stupid name is Fortnight?”

Jamie let go of the kid’s shoulder and slid his hand into his pocket, slipping his fingers through his own brass knuckles. “Did yer mother no’ teach ye manners? Let the policeman go and ye’ll all get to walk away wi’ all yer teeth.”

“Ford,” the shifty kid hissed. 

“What?” the leader—Ford, apparently—demanded, impatient.

“We don’t wanna mess with this guy.” Shifty swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny neck. “He’s in charge of the MacKenzies.”

Ford scoffed. “Fuck off, man.” He backhanded Grey across the jaw, snapping his head to the side. Grey spit out blood, splattering thick on the pavement.

It was a lousy, cheap shot, and it pissed Jamie off. So he drew his brass knuckles from his pocket and threw a punch at Ford at maybe half his usual power. The kid dropped like a sack of bloodied potatoes.

One of the thugs holding Grey loosened his grip enough for him to break free, and Jamie feinted at him, his own brass knuckled hand drawn back. He didn’t bolt immediately, but he didn’t attack either Jamie or Grey, so Jamie snatched the front of his shirt. With a tug he dragged the kid off balance and tossed him into the street. He landed with a guttural _oof_ as the air was forced from his lungs.

Turning his attention to Grey and the other thug, he saw that Grey had gotten his other arm free and grappled with the kid. Good Lord, he was trying to wrestle him to the ground. Handcuffs glinted bright silver in the setting sun. Jamie rolled his eyes, pulled Grey back by the collar of his shirt, and kicked the kid away. It wasn’t hard enough to break anything, but the boy got the point and rolled out of the way.

One left. The shifty kid put his hands high over his head in surrender. Jamie nodded down the street and he took off running. The other three gathered themselves, Ford still bleeding, and followed at a pitiful gait.

Dropping his brass knuckles back in his pocket, he offered a hand to Grey, still sprawled on the pavement. He looked at Jamie’s hand for a moment like it would poison him, then took it. Jamie hauled him to his feet, steadying him with an arm around his middle when he wobbled and threatened to collapse again. “Are ye alright, Patrolman Grey?”

“Perfectly fine,” Grey said. “Thank you, but I had that—”

“If the next thing out of yer mouth is ‘under control,’ I swear I’ll drop ye.”

Grey clammed up. “Thank you.” He pointed east. “If you’ll just see me to my motorcycle, it’s…” He pointed west. “That way.”

Jamie rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “Did they knock out yer brain? There’s no way ye’re riding in this condition. Ye’d be better off riding drunk.”

“There’s a… Prohibition on. Haven’t you heard? There’s no doing anything drunk.” Grey’s eyes were glazed over, probably with pain he was barely keeping in check. The shock would wear off soon and then he’d be in a world of hurt. 

“Aye, whatever ye say.” Jamie really, _really_ should let them go their separate ways, pretend this never happened. The urge to help Grey was idiotic. But hadn't he said that he had a family? Being gunned down in the performance of his duty was one thing, driving his motorcycle off a bridge was another.

That thought stopped Jamie dead in his tracks as it dragged up memories of Claire and Annalise, of how they’d died. He’d not seen the crash of course, but his imagination had treated him to visions of it far too many times to count. Their funerals had been closed-casket out of necessity. He didn’t wish that on anyone, not even an overzealous copper.

Jamie heaved a sigh and got an arm around Grey to support him and directed him down the street opposite the direction the thugs had run. They paused at Grey’s motorcycle long enough for Jamie to lift the kickstand and start pushing it with one hand. It was heavy as hell and awkward to keep a firm grasp on the motorbike with one hand and Grey with the other, but he managed. “Come on, let’s get ye cleaned up.”

Grey protested and tried to pull away but Jamie had him in an iron grip and was hopelessly stubborn. “I’ll be fine. Just take me to the hospital, that way. I’m sure I don’t need it, but—”

“And ye’re going to explain this to yer boss how, exactly?” Jamie shook his head, laughing ruefully. “Christ, man, I’ve already got the market cornered on bull-headedness, so ye can save yer breath.” He kept them moving toward his house. 

Why in the name of St. Michael was he taking a _policeman_ to his own house? He’d absolutely lost his mind. But Grey obviously knew how to find him anyway, so it didn’t make much difference, did it?

“What if we run into someone you know?” Grey asked after a few blocks. He sounded slightly less woozy at least and Jamie relaxed his hold on him. He didn’t let go though. “What will the other gangsters think when they see Fortnight Fraser helping a beat-up cop down the street in the middle of the afternoon?”

Jamie snorted. “Firstly, they’ll assume that I’m the one who beat ye. Secondly, they’ll probably pray for the repose of yer immortal soul, if they’re spiritually inclined.”

Grey’s back and shoulders went stiff in Jamie’s grip. “You’ve killed a lot of policemen, then?”

“Define ‘a lot.’” Actually, Jamie had never murdered a cop in cold blood. He was probably responsible for a few deaths over the course of his career though. But Grey didn’t need to know that.

“How many cops have you killed, Mr. Fraser?” There was a surprising amount of steel in Grey’s voice for a guy who couldn’t walk a straight line unaided.

“Are ye planning to charge me with something, officer? Because if so, I’ll leave yer arse right here in the street.”

Grey gave a grunt of frustration. “No. I just wanted to know.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “The Fifth Amendment is still on the books, aye? Let’s go wi’ that.”

A growl and a grumble this time. “Fine.”


	10. Chapter 10

About halfway home, Grey had pulled away from Jamie and walked on his own, hobbling and holding himself at an awkward angle. Leaving Grey’s motorcycle propped on its kickstand in the yard, Jamie unlocked the front door and pushed it open, motioning for Grey to follow him inside. “Kitchen’s in here,” Jamie said. “Have a seat and we’ll get ye patched up.”

Brianna wasn’t yet home from school, and Murtagh was out with Dougal, which was just as well. With any luck, he’d have Grey patched up and on his way before anyone showed up.

Jamie kept a tin first aid box in a cabinet near the sink. It had been Claire’s, meticulously stocked and organized with the kind of fastidiousness only a nurse could conjure for such a simple thing. She’d packed it in his things when he’d moved out without telling him. Jamie smiled to himself. She always was a bit of a worrier, but considering most of his own injuries were incurred as a result of major crime, it was understandable and just as well that she had given it to him. Jamie wasn’t nearly the skilled medic that Claire had been, but he could probably keep Grey from bleeding out at any rate.

He snatched a clean linen washcloth from a drawer and wiped the wistful smile off his face before sitting down next to Grey. “Alright, lad," Jamie said, opening the tin. “Show me where the big kids hit ye.”

Grey just glared at him, looking rather like a put-out housecat. A pitiful housecat, his black eye blooming nicely. The only place Jamie had ever seen a man so staunchly closed off was his own mirror.

Jamie sighed and opened a bottle of iodine, dabbing a bit on a corner of the rag. Grey’s split lip had stopped bleeding, but it was still open. Jamie reached toward it with the iodine and Grey jerked back. “I willnae bite ye, Patrolman Grey. Unless ye’d feel more comfortable crammed into a washroom to use a mirror and do it yerself, I suggest ye let me help.”

After another moment’s hesitation, Grey relaxed enough to allow Jamie to dab the iodine on the cut. He sucked in a sharp, pained breath through his nose but didn’t move, just stared at Jamie as he worked.

Adding more iodine to a clean patch of cloth, Jamie cleaned another cut along Grey’s jaw. This one stubbornly oozed blood, so he pressed a dry patch of the cloth to it. “Here, put a bit of pressure on that, Patrolman.”

Grey did as Jamie instructed, watching Jamie’s every move as he unrolled a package of Band-aids. Jamie felt the air around Grey grow even more tense as he produced a pair of scissors from the box and trimmed a bandage off the roll. 

"Why are you helping me?"

Jamie snorted and shook his head in disbelief. “God only knows.” He nudged Grey’s hand aside. Applying pressure had stopped the bleeding, and Jamie smoothed the bandage onto it. He sighed and rested an elbow on the table. “While I cannae imagine ye actually had a good reason to be confronting those lads, I dinnae reckon that it justified beating ye to death." Jamie shrugged and took the wash rag back from Grey. "And anyway, ye seem like the kind of copper who gives a damn about the right thing. Which is inconvenient for me, but rare in my experience. Lift yer shirt."

Grey blinked at him. "Beg pardon?"

"Ye got swiped wi' a knife did ye no'?" Jamie pointed at the bloodied hole in Grey’s shirtfront, getting close enough to make him flinch, but didn’t actually touch him.

As if he hadn’t realized before this moment, Grey looked down at himself, frowning at the tear in his shirt visible through his open leather coat. “Oh. So I did.” He straightened in his chair to tug his shirt from his trousers, a pained grunt escaping from between his tightly compressed lips. His shoulders slumped, though he didn’t exactly relax again when he raised his shirt to reveal a trim, pale stomach. He lifted his shirt a bit higher to show the lower portion of a gently carved chest that Jamie would have liked to see more of, under entirely different circumstances. 

The blade had landed a few scant inches south of Grey’s nipple. It wasn’t terribly deep, but it was at risk of opening back up. Blood smeared his chest, some of it dried already, and Jamie stood to fetch another clean rag. He dampened this under the tap and took his seat again, bending and mopping up the blood from Grey’s skin.

Grey sucked in a sharp breath. “Cold,” he gasped.

"Sorry." Once Jamie had cleaned enough skin for a Band-aid to stick, he doused the rag with iodine again and gently dabbed at the gash. "Ye can relax, aye? I'm no' going to spend all this time patching ye up just to kill ye." He squinted at the wound. "Ye're lucky, Patrolman. I dinnae think ye need stitches."

"John,” Grey said, voice barely above a whisper. “You can call me John.”

Jamie drew up short, his hand just hovering there between them with the towel an inch away from the wound. The offer of familiarity sent an unexpected flutter through his wame and Jamie swallowed it down hard. _This is not a friend,_ he reminded himself. _Absolutely not._ Why in the name of all that's holy _was_ he helping John? There was nothing life-threatening about these injuries and he'd successfully walked off the disorientation. There was no reason he shouldn't cut the copper loose. And if Dougal found out… 

"Jamie," he muttered back. 

_Eejit_. 

He dabbed iodine on John's wound, cleaning it carefully because God only knew why. While the iodine dried, Jamie eyeballed how much bandage he needed and snipped off a patch. Using his right hand to pinch the wound closed, Jamie smoothed the Band-aid over it, careful to keep the adhesive off the cut. Grey would probably lose some chest hair when he ripped it off. With a conscious effort—and some regret—Jamie removed his hands from Grey’s person before his touch lingered too long.

Then Jamie saw the bruising. Great, fist-shaped splotches of purple and green. "Christ," he muttered, bending close to get a better look and gingerly prodding the area. "They really worked ye over. Is this all from today?”

“Most of it.”

Their voices were lowered to a rather intimate volume and they kept them there. Jamie met John’s eyes and got sucked in. Unable to look anywhere else, he just stared into those pale eyes, turning dark with the same lust that Jamie felt burning away inside himself. It would be such a simple thing for them to walk to the end of the hall and tumble into Jamie’s bed. It had been such a long time since he’d enjoyed the pleasure of someone else’s body, man or woman. No one since Claire had died and Brianna came to live with him all the time. But Brianna wasn’t here. 

“Jamie—”

John’s mouth tasted like coppery blood and stale coffee. Jamie's mind whirled out of control. Sparks flew, time stopped, the world flipped upside down, and for just a moment nothing else mattered in the world. Not Dougal or bootlegging or cops, nor the family or the life or prison. In that moment, the only important thing in the entire world was the realization that John was kissing him back. 

Without thinking about it, Jamie had laid his palms flat against John’s skin, under his shirt. The muscles underneath his hands tensed and twitched. Such a simple thing to tug his shirt off. How easy it would be to crash down that hallway, to kick that bedroom door shut behind them. They could be naked in seconds. To feel more of him, taste more of him. John clung to Jamie’s jacket, bunching the fabric in his tight fists. He wanted it too, _dear God_.

The front door banged shut and Brianna's voice barreled through the house. "Da? I'm home."

Jamie and John flew apart so fast they nearly toppled their chairs, John tugging his shirt back down decently. And just like that, the first aid was complete. "Kitchen, _a chuisle_." Jamie resisted the urge to thumb away a bit of extra saliva from his lower lip. John looked anywhere but Jamie, and Jamie turned to face the kitchen door as Brianna skipped through it.

She froze at the sight of John, her bright blue eyes wide and fixed to the badge on his shirt. Her face went dead white. She didn’t really understand what Jamie’s life was, he carefully kept it from her, but she knew that he’d been in prison for a long time. She knew that policeman didn’t care for her father and that Uncle Dougal said they were dangerous and not to be trusted. “Da?” Brianna turned her frightened eyes to Jamie. “Are you in trouble? Did something happen?”

Jamie rose and went to her side, squatting next to her and giving her slender arms a gentle squeeze. “Nay, Bree, nothing like that. Patrolman Grey here got hurt and I was just helping him. Nothing’s amiss. Why don’t ye go to yer room and practice yer spelling list. I’ll bring ye a snack in a few minutes, aye?”

Brianna gave John another long look, then at Jamie’s encouraging nod, said, “Yes, sir.” She left the kitchen much slower than she’d come in.

The two men remained silent until they heard the sound of Brianna’s bedroom door click shut. 

“I’m so sorry,” Grey said. “I hope my being here didn’t…” He trailed off and the statement died in the air between them.

“I was in prison when she was born,” Jamie said in a hushed voice, staring down the empty hall with his back to John. “She kens it was a policeman who put me there. And she kens that if I go there again she’s nowhere to go herself since—” Jamie choked on the words, swallowed the lump, and continued. “Since her mother died.”

“I am sorry,” John whispered. “I didn’t realize. How did… nevermind, it doesn’t matter.” He stood, and after a couple footsteps, walked past Jamie toward the front door. “Um… thank you,” he said. “For your help.” 

And then he was gone. 

Jamie scrubbed his hand over his jaw and blew out a long breath. What in the holy fuck was he _doing?_ John was a cop. _A cop_. Oh God, of all the idiotic, stupid things he could do, he had to kiss a policeman. It was bad enough that Jamie had helped Grey. And then the damned stupid decisions just compounded, one on top of another on top of another. 

And what was worse, Jamie had _enjoyed_ kissing him. 

The memory of that holding cell before he’d been transported to Cook County came flooding into the front of Jamie’s mind. That bastard Randall, laying out all the fabricated evidence. Spinning his story so eloquently and with such conviction, that for a short time Jamie had even started to believe he’d killed that man. But then Randall had had to really clench his case.

Jamie had resisted arrest. Of course he had. He’d gotten a couple of good punches in, but Jamie had been alone and Randall hadn’t. It took four of them, but they’d overpowered him eventually, dragging him to the ground. So to really sell it, Randall had picked up in the cell where they’d left off in the street. He’d goaded Jamie into a fight, which Jamie had had no chance of winning. He was too tired from taking a four-against-one beating, and Randall was only trying to exaggerate how violent his arrest had been.

Well, it had been violent alright. They’d cracked two of Jamie’s ribs, broken his nose. It was one of the worst beatings of his life. And in the holding cell, Randall had smashed Jamie’s knuckles into the wall over and over until he’d broken half the bones in his right hand. Then he’d head-butted Jamie to bloody his own face. But it had smashed Jamie’s broken nose and for a moment he’d blacked out. When he came to, Randall was gone.

“Da?” Brianna stood in front of him in the kitchen, staring up at him, her ginger brows furrowed in concern. 

Jamie came back to the present and tried for a smile at his daughter. His right hand ached and when Jamie looked down, it was clenched tight in a fist, jammed down onto the table. It took him a moment to get all the right parts moving in the right direction, but he managed to pick his hand up and unclench his fist. “Och! Yer snack.” Jamie hastily gathered himself and opened the icebox to pull out the block of cheddar. He plucked an apple from the fruit bowl on the table.

“Are you okay?” Brianna asked. “You looked scared.”

Putting on the most confident smile he could muster, Jamie replied, “Me? Scared? Nay, lass. I’m no’ scared of anything.”

_Except perhaps having my judgement clouded by feelings for a damn cop._


	11. Chapter 11

“Is that the coroner’s report?” O’Connell asked, plopping into the chair next to Grey. He reached for the stack of papers in Grey’s hand, and John snatched them back on impulse. 

“Why do you care?” Grey replied. It _was_ the coroner’s report, rather little to go on, and John wasn’t an inspector. He had no business looking at it. But the coroner’s assistant, a dangerously flirtatious fellow named Wainwright was kind enough to slip him a peek when a mobster showed up dead. Well, maybe not kind, but he was one of the few people John had met in the last five years who still cared about saving Chicago from the likes of the Outfit and the MacKenzies. At least, he cared about trying to get into Grey’s pants, and therefore routinely snuck him copies of reports that Grey would otherwise not have access to. Wainwright was enough of a colleague that he was off limits, though. 

_That’s right, Grey,_ he told himself. _Much better to snog the dangerous mobster you should be trying to arrest. Life’s too short to go around sleeping with honest, attractive men. Christ._

O’Connell shrugged. “I don’t. You know Captain Caswell already closed that case though, right? Victim was one of Capone’s men.” O’Connell tore off a massive bite of the donut in his hand, talking with his mouth full. “Cap’s not wasting man hours getting in the middle of a turf war.”

Grey gave him a disgusted grimace and brushed crumbs off the table in the general direction of O’Connell’s shoes. “What do you mean, turf war?” The shootout had happened at State Attorney Bowles’ residence outside of town. This wasn’t exactly a secret, but if the wrong person overhead Grey implicate Bowles, they’d railroad him for trying to bring the feds in. Again.

“Was a MacKenzie that gave your boy there lead poisoning.” O’Connell dropped more crumbs from his obnoxious face. They landed on the coroner’s report, and Grey swiped them off irritably, directly onto O’Connell’s unpolished shoes this time. 

“So the shooter’s been arrested?” Perhaps it was someone he recognized. If he were still in holding, he could just stroll casually in, maybe. 

O’Connell snorted. “You kidding? I heard it was _the_ MacKenzie himself. Fortnight.”

Grey smacked the report down onto the table and turned a sharp glare up to O’Connell. “Wait, wait. Back up a second. Are you saying Fortnight Fraser is actually the MacKenzies’ top dog? The real one?”

“What rock you been living under? That’s the word on the street anyway.” O’Connell polished off his donut, thank Christ, but still didn’t bother to finish chewing and swallowing before he kept talking. “The other word on the street is that Capone’s put a hit out on him personally. Wasn’t enough evidence to arrest him, and the Outfit will take care of it faster than we could anyway.”

“Thanks, O’Connell.” Grey stood and swatted him on the shoulder with the papers still clutched in one hand, then hurried out of the bull pen. If Capone put a hit out on Fraser, he could already be dead. But that was just as well, wasn’t it? It would save the state an expensive investigation to charge him with murder—again—and they might not be able to get him for anything more than rackateering anyway. Surely his brother Hal could get the BOI involved _now_. The police would need the reinforcements anyway if Capone declared open war on the MacKenzies, or vice versa. How many innocent people would get caught in that crossfire?

If the police could get one of the major players off the board, then perhaps they could avoid spending most of their time telling frightened mothers, “I’m so sorry, Ma’am, but your son has been killed.” 

But what police? Grey himself, all alone? No one else cared. Maybe Quarry would help him, but what good could the two of them possibly do? 

Grey’s imagination treated him to the truly horrible vision of his own son William getting gunned down in a crossfire, just trying to walk home from school. He tried to push away the image of his small body going cold in a pool of blood. But the nightmare stuck fast, and Grey swallowed hard to keep from vomiting into a trashcan. _Anything, think of anything else!_

Fraser’s daughter had looked about Willie’s age.

No. _No._ No matter who her father was, she was innocent in all this. 

Shoving the coroner’s report into the inner pocket of his jacket, Grey all but ran out to the motorpool. He stopped short as he stared at his motorbike. Both tires were flat, rusty nails sticking out of the rubber. “Fucking _bastards!”_ Protocol dictated that Grey report the trouble and have the tires replaced immediately, but that would take precious time. Time that he didn’t have. _And why don’t you have the time?_ the voice inside Grey’s head nagged him. _This isn’t your job, it’s not your fight. Your job is to write traffic citations and keep your nose clean._

But if he didn’t do it, who the hell would?

Grey swore again, then his eyes landed on Harry Quarry’s motorbike, parked next to his. Quarry was the closest thing to a friend on the force that Grey had. He wasn’t a bad cop. He kept his head down, stayed out of everyone else’s way, and did his level best not to get himself or anyone else killed. 

He was also off work on Saturdays. Grey would make it up to him. A cup of coffee and a pack of smokes ought to do the trick.

Mind made up, Grey spun on his heel and hustled to the motor pool clerk, securing Quarry’s key with barely a second glance from the clerk. He mounted Quarry’s bike and took off, all the while asking himself why. _Why?_ Why the hell was he doing this? He could bring Fraser in for questioning, maybe figure out a way to avoid absolute catastrophe. But was he doing it for himself, or for Fraser? _Duty_ , he decided. Fraser was a criminal, that was no secret. He had a right to a fair trial, and then he could go back to prison—rightfully this time—and the world would be better for it.

There it was. Duty. And nothing else. Someone fucking had to care.


	12. Chapter 12

Grey weaved in and out of traffic, narrowly avoided rear-ending a slow truck in the wrong lane, and ignored two drivers who neglected to stop at stop signs. Part of Grey’s mind, the part that thought this was foolish and out of line probably, argued that he should slow down. It would be impossible to find Fraser at all if he wrapped his motorbike around a tree. But another, louder part of him argued that the situation could change very, very quickly and minutes mattered.

Fraser’s house was empty. Grey pounded on the door, called out Fraser’s name. No answer, nothing stirred. Shit. He checked his wristwatch. The primary school let out over an hour ago. A quick circuit around the house led to a car parked in the backyard with a canvas sheet tossed over it. From what he could see of the vehicle, it was rather expensive and imported, and he didn’t believe for a moment that Fraser had paid the appropriate tariffs on it. Grey lifted one side of the canvas and spat, “Shit.” The passenger seat was covered in a brownish-red stain, blood that had been hastily wiped up but not thoroughly cleaned. By the looks of it, it had been a lot of blood. Someone had died in this car, probably recently.

Well, that connected Fraser to a death, but not necessarily a murder. Grey opened the passenger door and felt around the edges of the door panel. He found a notch in the wood, worked a fingertip into it, and pried the panel off. It wasn’t exactly easy, but clearly it had been designed to do just that. There was a full bottle of scotch in the door, hidden behind the panel.

Any halfway decent defense attorney would successfully argue that Grey hadn’t found the scotch being manufactured, bought, sold, or transported, so it wasn’t technically bootlegging. He’d also not found it with a proper search warrant, and without Fraser himself here, this was unlawful search and seizure. Grey replaced the panel and shut the door, draping the canvas back over the car.

He looked around the small lawn, examined the house, squinting into all the windows he could. There was no sign that Fraser’s daughter had been home yet. And if Fraser _were_ home, and watching a cop snoop around uninvited, he’d likely shoot first and ask questions later, so Fraser himself was probably not home. But he _was_ probably involved in the shootout at Bowles’ residence, which had taken place last Monday. 

Grey had last seen Fraser two days ago, inside this very house. Fraser had played him for a fool. Sure, he’d patched Grey up after that run-in with the young thugs, which should never have happened. There were protocols in place for _a reason._ The police department covered his job-related medical expenses _for a fucking reason_ but no. No, Grey had to go following his prick into the lion’s den.

And then he’d stuck his tongue in the goddamn lion’s mouth. 

“Dear fucking Christ in heaven,” Grey muttered, digging his fingers into his temples. He did his level best to stuff down his own anger at himself and focus on the problem at hand, which was that possible evidence of a murder was here, but Jamie “Fortnight” Fraser was not.

Grey strode to the front of the house again to his borrowed motorcycle, started it up, and pulled out into the main thoroughfare, eyes peeled for broad shoulders and red hair.

* * *

Grey spotted Fraser as the sun was setting. He was strolling away from Union Park, his daughter's hand in his. An older gentleman walked with them, smiling fondly at the girl. Grey stopped his motorcycle next to a blue emergency box, his hand resting on the grip of his pistol, heart hammering away in his ears. _This is it._

"Mr. Fraser," he said, approaching the trio. Fraser stopped dead in his tracks and pushed his daughter behind him. The older man rested one hand on her shoulder and stepped aside to Fraser's flank, clearly ready for trouble. "I need you to come with me, please."

The older man squinted at Grey, his eyes dark and shrewd, sizing him up and liking the odds. “Ye’ve got a properly issued warrant, then?”

Grey gave the older man a level stare. “You’re Mr. Fraser’s attorney, I take it?” He didn’t believe that was remotely true, and returned his gaze to Jamie. Even on edge and considering doing something violent and foolish, he was unspeakably handsome, the firm line of his lips no less desirable for the promise of injury about them. 

_No._ Grey shoved that line of thought from his mind. “Just questions to ask. I’m investigating a murder.” That was an entirely false statement, but Grey went silent and let the lie float.

“Since when do motorcycle cops pick up suspects for questioning?” The older man asked. Fraser still hadn’t spoken. Still sticking with the Fifth Amendment, then.

“What’s your name, Sir?” Grey asked. Some might have called his tone a demand, and from the gentleman’s posture, he did.

“Fitzgibbons,” the older man answered. 

“And what’s your relationship to Mr. Fraser?” Grey might be able to posture his way through this fool’s errand. Maybe.

“I dinnae have to answer—”

“Murtagh,” Fraser said quietly, and Fitzgibbons clammed up. “I didnae murder anyone, Patrolman Grey. Who’s are ye investigating?”

Grey almost answered the question directly, but stopped himself in time. “Where were you on the night of January the seventh?”

“Robbing a bank,” Fraser said. His face was completely locked down, nothing but that hard stare getting through. There it was. He’d reverted to his sarcasm and evasiveness, which Grey figured meant that Fraser was hiding something.

“Now, Mr. Fraser,” Grey said. And so what if he indulged in his petty urge to sound overly placating? “There’s no reason to make a scene in front of your daughter.” Both Fraser and Fitzgibbons squared their shoulders, a subtle shift in their posture that told Grey everything he needed to know about their ability to handle a straight fight. The girl fixed Grey with a frightened, pleading stare. She had her father’s eyes, blue and cat-like. But where Jamie Fraser had built a bunker to keep everyone—Grey included—from looking in, his daughter had constructed a rickety fence. He recognized that look from his own mirror as a boy: the childlike fear of being alone.

Grey swallowed hard and shoved down the knee-jerk reaction to protect her, to offer reassurances. But he had a job to do. He might very well be the last cop in all of Chicago who still thought open warfare between the MacKenzies and Capone’s Outfit would be nothing but tragedy. And it was likely that to do that would be to take her father away, but it was better than both of them being killed. Wasn’t it?

But this posturing was getting Grey absolutely nowhere. He sighed. “Look, Mr. Fraser, I’ll be straight with you. You’re a person of interest in the death of Joseph Marcone. Now, you can come with me to the station, have a nice, civil conversation, and possibly go on your merry way. Or I can lawfully arrest you on suspicion of racketeering and you will most certainly not be home in time to kiss your daughter goodnight.”

The girl twitched, inching toward her father, but Fitzgibbons pulled her close to him and patted her shoulder. Grey let the choice hang in the air between them, Fraser drumming his right hand against his thigh.

At last Fraser blew out a long breath, gave Grey some hard stare that he couldn’t interpret, and spun on his heel to face his daughter. He squatted down in front of her and laid a hand on her arm. “Papa Murtagh will take ye home from here. I’m going to go sort this out and I’ll see ye soon, aye?” 

The girl nodded, lip quivering. She held her tears though, narrow shoulders squared bravely.

“Eat yer vegetables, brush yer teeth. Say yer prayers and tell Mam and Mama ye love them.” Fraser’s voice wavered on that last sentence and Grey burnt with curiosity but let it go. “I love ye, _a chuisle_.”

“I love you too, Da.” She threw her arms around Fraser’s neck and hugged him tight. 

Fraser held his daughter close, stroking her hair and whispering something to her that Grey couldn’t hear or understand. 

He gave them space, but with each passing second, his sense of urgency grew. His hand still rested on his service revolver and he desperately hoped he wouldn’t have to draw it in front of this little girl.

Then Fraser stood and looked at Fitzgibbons. “If I’m no’ home by dawn, call Ned for me.”

“Are ye sure ye want to play it this way?” Fitzgibbons asked in a hushed tone. Not hushed enough, obviously, and he cast a quick, sidelong glance at Grey.

“It willnae be like last time,” Fraser said. The two men exchanged a few words each in a language Grey had never heard before, then Fraser turned back to Grey and nodded. “Alright. Lead the way, Patrolman.”

Grey drew out his handcuffs and opened them. “Hands out front, if you please.” Fraser held his arms out in front of him and allowed Grey to close the cuffs around his wrists, the strand clicking tight and locking into the pawl. Fraser even cooperated as Grey led him by the arm back to his motorcycle and the blue emergency box, waiting silently where Grey positioned him. Opening the box, Grey picked up the phone, the desk sergeant picking up immediately. “Patrolman Grey, one-seven-two-nine. Requesting a vehicle to transport a person in custody for questioning.”

* * *

Jamie had spoken as few words as possible between the time Grey had closed the handcuffs around his wrists and their arrival at the police station. A surly desk sergeant had taken his pistol and the brass knuckles from his coat pocket, along with the knife from his ankle. Then Grey had exchanged curt words with a policeman in a suit—an inspector, probably—and led Jamie to an interrogation room. 

The sound of the door shutting behind him set Jamie’s heart to pounding in his chest. Was it the same room Randall had locked him in? No, it couldn’t be. That one had been for holding prisoners under arrest. This was marginally better. But Jamie knew all too well just how quickly being locked in a room with a copper could go from tolerable to distinctly _intolerable_.

After a long silence disturbed only by the sound of Jamie’s own breathing, Grey approached him and held out the handcuff key. Jamie raised his hands and Grey unlocked the handcuffs, removing them and dropping them on the table out of Fraser’s reach. Then Grey took a step back and leaned against the wall opposite and stared Jamie down. He met him glower for glower, waiting for Grey to start the conversation.

“Where were you on the night of January seventh? Between the hours of midnight and three A.M.?” Grey’s handsome face was impassable as stone, like it had been in Jamie’s kitchen yesterday. Minutes before they’d kissed—

_That’s enough of that,_ Jamie scolded himself. “I was at work.” As much truth as he could give without it actually being the truth. But Jamie knew he was an excellent liar. 

“Where do you work such a late shift?” Grey had a folder in his hand and crossed his arms over his chest, the sleeves of his uniform stretching over neatly defined muscles.

“A warehouse near the lake.”

Grey cocked his head to the side, skepticism written all over his face. "Which one?”

“Loch Ness,” Jamie said dryly.

Grey was less than amused. “Which _warehouse,_ smart ass. And why were you there so late?"

"My family owns a small distribution company. I typically check on the place once or twice a week overnight." It didn’t actually answer Grey’s question, and Jamie narrowed his eyes at Grey, lowering his voice. "Lots of unsavory types roam the docks at night, ken?" 

Grey was unmoved. "And what does your family's company distribute, Mr. Fraser?"

"Furniture."

Grey let out a sardonic laugh and shook his head. "That's what Al Capone says is his day job too. So what? Is there only one person handing out bad alibis at gangster school and they're all the same one?"

Jamie gave Grey a hard stare and kept his mouth shut. Even unarmed, he could probably kill Grey before help got through the door. But then what? There was no way in hell he'd get out of the police station alive. But he would _not_ go to prison again. Absolutely fucking not.

Grey tossed the folder on the table and it slid to a stop in front of Jamie. “You recognize that man?” he asked as Jamie flipped open the cover.

It was a grainy photograph of Joey, Capone’s man with the tommy gun. Or it had been. There wasn’t much left of his face and there were definite bullet holes in his chest. Jamie hadn’t really taken a good look at the guy as he bled out in Bowles’s lawn, but it was definitely the same man.

Jamie sat back in the chair and looked back up at Grey, his face completely neutral. “Never seen him before in my life.”

“Well, that’s interesting. His name was Joseph Marcone.” Grey nodded at the folder again. “Turn the page, please, and tell me if you recognize him.”

Jamie let out an annoyed sigh and turned the page. Angus’s lifeless eyes stared back at him from the photograph. No. No, that couldn’t be. Old Alec was _family._ Family didn’t talk to the police about family business. Alec had never betrayed Dougal like this before, not ever. It had to be a mistake. A frame job, that was it. 

“No, I cannae say that I ken him.” For the first time in his adult life, Jamie told a lie that he didn’t actually think would pass.

“Oh you don’t?” Grey asked, pushing away from the wall and bracing both hands on the table in front of Jamie. He dipped his head and raised his shoulders, looking very much like a predator spotting an opening. “You don’t recognize Angus Mhor? He’s not related to you? A cousin, perhaps? I was given to understand that the MacKenzie clan was more tight-knit than that. Why, I’ll bet your family in Scotland even knows he’s dead.”

Jamie kept his mouth clamped shut. His teeth creaked loudly in his own ears from grinding them together. Fucking Alec. Fucking Dougal. He should be out. He should have been out _months_ ago. And yet here he was, once again, about to go down for a crime he didn’t fucking commit. 

_Except ye did kill that Italian, did ye no’?_

And Angus, that was Jamie’s fault too. As soon as he’d realized that the Outfit was there, he should have turned the car around and gunned it out of the neighborhood. But no. Instead, he’d stuck around, tried to finish the job. For Dougal. Dougal, his own uncle, who could have slit his throat without blinking for failing. Dougal had murdered his own brother, after all. Collum MacKenzie had been dead set against Dougal emigrating to America, and then he’d _mysteriously_ died. And the week after the funeral, Dougal started moving the family he knew he could trust, the dirt over his brother’s grave still bare and freshly turned. 

That pain in the arse Grey was still talking. “What sort of family leader manages not to hear of his own kinsman’s death, Mr. Fraser?”

Jamie blinked up at him. “Leader? Who do ye think I am, Patrolman Grey?”

Grey drew himself back to his full height and glowered down at Jamie. “You’re James Fraser and you lead the MacKenzie clan crime syndicate. You’re a bootlegger and a murderer. Now tell me why those men are dead.”

He should be _out_. It should be Dougal in here, not Jamie. He’d done so much of Dougal’s dirty work over the years. Taken the fall for so goddamn much. Missed out on the first five years of his daughter’s life because he took the fall for shit that wasn’t his to take. And he’d be damned if he missed out on the rest of Brianna’s life because of Dougal, because of all this. His uncle said the family would take care of them. He’d promised, swore to him that Jamie and Bree would be okay. And because it was a goddamn lie, Jamie had burnt his bridges.

Jamie opened his mouth to tell Grey everything, to implicate his uncle, to break down the entire inner workings of the MacKenzies. 

But what would Dougal do when he realized Jamie had done that? What would he do to him? More terrifying, what would he do to Brianna? Jamie’s wame curdled and flipped and he swallowed hard, heart hammering away behind his breastbone. No. This was family business. 

“Mr. Fraser!” Grey half-shouted. “Answer the question.”

Jamie shot to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. He had to get out of here. Clearly, Patrolman Grey was not going to be easily deterred, and Jamie lost every last ounce of his patience. All he could see was red anger and a thousand horrible scenarios, rotating through his mind. When—not if, _when_ —Dougal found out Jamie was here, what might he do? No, he had to get out. 

“Did ye intend to arrest me for either of these deaths, Patrolman Grey?”

Grey took a step back and put his hand on his gun. “Have a seat please, Mr. Fraser.”

_“I said_ , do ye intend to arrest me?”

“Just tell me what happened! Absolutely no straight answers have come out of your mouth since we met.” Grey’s face was red and furious. “Are you even capable of saying one thing that isn’t sarcasm or a complete lie?”

“Since we met? Since ye first started harassing me, ye mean!” Jamie slammed his fists down onto the table with a bang, the table shifting. It wasn’t bolted to the floor. 

“Sit down, Mr. Fraser!” Grey was shouting now too. Surely someone would hear. Surely he’d have goons swarming into the room any second now. 

Jamie grabbed one side of the table and slung it to the side, and it slammed into a wall so hard the plaster cracked and the walls shook. Grey startled, and started to draw his pistol. Jamie crossed the distance between them. He brought his right forearm up to Grey’s throat and shoved him back into the wall, pinning him there. His left hand got to Grey’s right and squeezed until he let go of his gun. Bones didn’t break, but it felt like a near thing, and the pistol clattered to the wooden floor.

“Ye’ve had a personal vendetta against me from day one. And I dinna ken why, but it ends now, do ye understand me, John Grey?” That fucking cop didn’t answer and Jamie pressed harder, leaning into his arm, their hips touching too. It didn’t matter how attractive Grey was. They hadn’t shared a moment in Jamie’s kitchen. That was nothing. It meant nothing. They were enemies and they always would be. “The next time I see ye, ye’d best bring all yer copper friends, because I _will_ kill ye.”

"All I have to do is call for help, and you'll be on your face on the floor. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison?” Grey swallowed and Jamie felt it under his arm.

“Are ye honestly trying to play good cop, bad cop by yerself?” Jamie shook his head. “You and I both ken that the only way anyone else is coming into this room is if Capone wants it. Now, if I’m no’ under arrest, ye cannae say I resisted when I walk out that door, aye?”

Grey gave him an impressively stern glare from his current position sandwiched between Jamie and the wall. “Do not leave this room.”

Jamie scoffed. “Ye’re probably too young to remember a rat bastard policeman named Randall. He was determined to put me away too. Harassed me, provoked me. Dirtiest cop I ever met. I thought ye were different, but…” He shook his head, “I willnae make the same mistake with you that I made with him.”

“What mistake was that?” Grey whispered. His entire body felt tense under Jamie, but he was still.

“I let him live.” Jamie pushed away from Grey and the wall, turned his back on him, and let himself out. He didn’t bother collecting his belongings from the desk sergeant. He had more guns and knives at home. He just needed out. Police stared at him stupidly or looked him up and down with contempt. But he walked with purpose and strolled directly to the door and out onto the street, still busy with late evening foot traffic.

Full dark had long-fallen on Chicago. Bree would be going to bed soon, and Jamie needed the walk to clear his head, figure out what to do. How fast could he get Brianna to Scotland? Dougal might put up a fight, might try to stop him when he figured out what Jamie was doing, but there was no way he could stay in Chicago with everything about to fall down around his ears. And Alec… what was he up to? Something was very wrong. Jamie’s impulse reaction was to tell Dougal, give him a chance to put things in order. Dougal probably already knew though. So where did that leave Jamie?

_Utterly fucked, that’s where._


	13. Chapter 13

It was half-past ten when Jamie finally made it home, and before his shoes even hit the stoop, a terrible feeling of dread writhed in his stomach. He hastened his step on the sidewalk, spurred on by the inexplicable certainty that something was very, very wrong. There were no strange cars on the road, no shifty characters lurking about, just Jamie.

Then the front door came into view, wide open to the night, a hazy pool of yellow light spilling onto the front step.

Jamie broke into a run, cursing that fucker Grey for dragging him to the police station where he’d given up his pistol. Armed or not, he was more than ready for whatever was inside his house.

He was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Murtagh was in a heap on the living room floor, the end table next to the sofa flipped over and surrounded by glass shards from the lamp that had lived on it. The rug was stained fresh red around his godfather. The room reeked of coppery blood and the carpet squelched under Jamie’s feet. Murtagh’s gun lay several feet away and Jamie scooped it up in his left hand. 

“Murtagh,” Jamie said, scanning the room and finding no one else. His godfather groaned and stirred. “Bree? Where’s Brianna?” He squatted next to Murtagh and laid his right hand on his arm. He’d been shot, that much was clear, but Jamie couldn’t tell if it was his shoulder or his chest. 

“Gone,” Murtagh managed, barely. His voice was low, every breath sounding like wet agony. “S-sorry. They—”

Jamie shot to his feet and dashed to Brianna’s room, jamming the light switch so hard he dented the switch plate. Sudden, harsh light bathed the room, her bedclothes tousled and empty, and his heart stopped beating. The window was broken, glass littering the rug. “Bree. Oh God, Bree.” 

Rage, terror, absolute bloodlust washed through Jamie. He couldn’t breathe, could barely see straight. His right hand shook, but his left on the gun was steady. “Bree!” he shouted, stupidly, uselessly. She wasn’t home. “Murtagh.”

Jamie ran back to the living room and crouched next to his godfather, mopping the sweat from his face with his hand. “Who did this? Who was it? Did ye see their faces?” Surely it was three or four men at least. Murtagh wouldn’t have let them get to Brianna without a hell of a fight.

“Dinna ken,” Murtagh croaked. “Didnae see… faces. Italians… I think.” A bloody hand closed over Jamie’s arm. Mutagh’s grip was weak and trembling, his eyes unfocused and frightened. Fierce anger still burned behind them though. “S-sorry, lad. Came in… her window. And the door.” He blinked hard and a tear rolled down his cheek, through a spatter of blood and turning ghastly. 

_He’s not going to make it_. The voice inside Jamie’s head was entirely too calm, too matter-of-fact. He was no stranger to the coppery smell of blood, to dying men. But not Murtagh. _Not Murtagh_. They’d hardly been apart since the day Jamie’s mother had died, and even less since his father had. 

“I’ll call ye help.” Jamie moved to rise and Murtagh’s weak grip tightened and he shook his head.

“T-too… too late.” Murtagh made a wet, nasty sound like the start of a rueful laugh, but it drowned in a horrible cough. “Kept my p-promise. Did I no’? By yer side till… my last—”

_“Stop,”_ Jamie said, his vision going blurry with tears. “Please. Dinna say it. This isnae what ye meant and ye ken that.”

Murtagh nodded weakly, his eyes falling closed. Half of a grim smile spread his pale lips. “Aye. ‘Twas. Promised… yer mam.”

“I cannae do this wi’out ye.” Jamie could barely understand his own words, his face screwed up in a grimace. He blinked away his tears, lest Murtagh go and Jamie not see it. “Ye cannae leave me now. I need yer help.”

“Nay,” Murtagh gasped, shaking his head. His eyes were still closed, hand still trembling. “Ye’ve always… been enough.” He let out one more wobbly, gurgling breath. He didn’t take another one.

And just like that, Jamie was alone.

Just Jamie and whatever—whoever—stood between him and his daughter. 

_Dougal_.

This was family business. Dougal could help. No matter what had passed between Jamie and his uncle, surely Dougal wouldn’t hold that against Bree. Like always, no matter what it was that pushed Jamie away, catastrophe brought him crawling back. He hated himself for it, for the sickly feeling of _wrong_ and _violation_ twisting in his guts to rely on Dougal yet again. But his pride and his conscience would just have to fucking wait their turn.

Jamie made his way to the kitchen in a daze, so much of the world spinning around him, out of control. He couldn’t help Murtagh, but Bree was somewhere. Christ, where could she be? Who could have her? _Why?_

_Ye ken why, eedjit._ Revenge. Fear. Manipulation, power, control. 

“Aye?” Dougal’s voice came through the phone. Jamie didn’t even remember giving the operator the number.

Shaking his head brought everything back into focus. “Brianna’s been taken.”

The line crackled, then Dougal spoke again. “Jamie? What do ye mean, ‘taken?’ Was Murtagh no’ wi’ ye?”

Jamie swallowed hard around the grieving rage in his throat. “He’s dead. Ye said ye’d help us. Dougal, I wanted _out_.” His voice rose in a shout and Jamie didn’t bother to draw back from the receiver. “I should have been _out_ , and this is yer fault. Now do as ye said and _help!”_

“I _did_ help ye, lad. Do ye have a roof o’r yer head? Did yer daughter have dinner in her belly? Hmm? And who was it that said we’d never speak again, aye?”

“My daughter is _gone,_ God damn you!” Jamie roared. “Either help me yerself or tell me what ye ken.”

There was a pause long enough that Jamie drew in a breath to shout some more. Then Dougal said. “It’s the Outfit. Ye ken Capone’s holding a grudge about Bowles.”

Of course it was. That was Dougal’s fault too, but Jamie didn’t say so. “It’s family business then, aye?”

“Now, hang on there, lad, it’s no’ so simple. I cannae just go waltzing onto Capone’s land wi’ an eye for blood. There’s too much at stake.”

“Aye, like my daughter!” 

“Ye think ye’re the only person in this family depending on me?” Dougal retorted, irritation clear in his voice. “If my position is compromised, I cannae help anyone, including yerself. I understand ye’re upset, Jamie, but think.”

If Dougal had been in the room with him, Jamie would have beat him to death. They both knew it was because of Jamie that Dougal even had his position. Dougal may have styled himself a kind of chieftain, but all the power and money he had he’d gotten off Jamie’s skill, business acumen, and ruthlessness. 

But if Jamie reminded his uncle of any of that, he’d get even less help. Dougal went on. “Now, I’ll send Murdo over, he can help. I’ll figure something to tell him to buy ye some time.”

Jamie sighed. It was better than nothing and as much as he was likely to get. And Bree could be running out of time. “Fine. Do ye ken where I can find Capone?”


	14. Chapter 14

Captain Caswell spent a solid hour chewing Grey out for bringing Fraser in for questioning. 

_You’re not an inspector, Grey. You will never be an inspector. No one likes a troublemaker. Stay inside your own lane._

And then he’d put Grey on leave without pay for two weeks. As he had left Caswell’s office, Grey thought he heard him mumble, “If the fucking mob doesn’t take you off my hands first.”

That was it then, the reason he didn’t sack Grey outright. Too many cops were dying, no matter whose rules the police played by. Caswell just needed the warm body in uniform, no matter what, until he was killed too.

Caswell’s words rattled through Grey’s head the entire way home. He held onto the streetcar handle with white knuckles, the sleeve of his plain green suit reeking of the turpentine someone had dumped in his locker. The worst of it was, Caswell’s tirade was starting to sink in. This wasn’t the first time that Grey had been chastised for doing what he’d intended to be the right thing—a foreign concept it seemed—but perhaps it should be the last? Maybe Hal could put in a good word for him with the Justice Department. Just maybe it would be enough to overcome Grey’s questionable disciplinary record.

Not bloody likely.

And where else could Grey go in Chicago without some crook or another recognizing him? How long would it take for the other police officers to stop harassing him if he quit? How long would it take for it to escalate? He’d have to leave town. Maybe his reputation wouldn’t follow him to Springfield. His mother had friends there, Grey thought, and she had been awfully worried about John. She’d go in a heartbeat, had suggested it over and over again when Grey’s wife had died last year. Benedicta had only moved to Chicago to stay with them when Grey had refused, insisting that his son had friends and school and memories of his mother. He didn’t want William to learn that when you lost someone you loved, you had to run away. Grey had spent his entire adult life unlearning that particular lesson. It was the only grudge he held against his mother.

The streetcar ground to a halt at Grey’s stop, and he hopped down to the pavement, narrowly avoiding a puddle. It wasn’t a long walk home from here, but it wouldn’t do to make the walk with wet socks. Under the glow of a streetlamp, Grey checked his wristwatch. It would be after eleven by the time he made it home, and Willie would be long asleep. Christ, what a long, shitty day. Fourteen hours and it had been his own fault. If he hadn’t gone after Fraser… 

Well, at least he’d have a couple weeks to rest and spend time with his son. Maybe the three of them would take a day trip out of the city. Chicago would still be standing when they returned, wouldn’t it?

Grey rolled his eyes at his own melodrama. He was spiraling into a foul mood and arresting the descent was proving to be a difficult task.

Benedicta Grey stood on the stoop, silhouetted in front of the light from the open door behind her. She was crying, a kitchen towel held to her cheek, wringing a corner of it with one shaking hand. 

“Mother?” Grey said, taking the steps two at a time, concern driving him faster. There was blood on her towel. “What’s the matter?” His mother was not an emotionally demonstrative woman. Perhaps Captain Caswell had phoned? But that didn’t make sense.

“John, oh thank God you’re home.” Benedicta threw her arms around him, clinging to his jacket. “I tried to stop them, I even tried to shoot at them, but of course they had Willie, and I was afraid—”

“Where’s Willie?” The world came crashing to a halt, a sound like shattered glass in his ears. Grey held his mother at arms’ length, fingers digging into her arms. He barely resisted the urge to shake her, fear and frustration and terror taking over. “What happened?”

“Two men, I don’t know who they were.” Benedicta took a deep breath, visibly forcing her sobs to abate. “The one who spoke had a Scottish accent, and he was tall—so tall. They came in through Willie’s window.” 

For the first time, Grey noticed that she had a black eye, the lid swelling and purple. And there was dried blood under her nose. _Dear God._

“I heard the glass break, so I took the gun, like you said to do. And I went into his room and they had him already. Snatched the poor boy right from his bed, poor thing! But I didn’t think I could shoot them without hitting William. The tall one hit me, the _bastard_ , and then threw this at me, and they just… waltzed out the damn door before I could get up.” Benedicta opened her hand to reveal a crumpled business card reading, _A. Malcolm, Furniture Sales and Distribution_.

_Jamie fucking Fraser._ Jamie Fraser had been at Grey’s house, brutalized his mother, and abducted his son. _Dear fucking God._

“And then?” Grey took his hands off his mother’s arms then because he _would_ shake her and it wasn’t her fault. “Did you call the station?”

Benedicta nodded, drawing in a shaky, sobbing breath. “I did. They said you had left for the night and when I told them who I was and what happened, they said they’d send a car. But John, that was half an hour ago! They could be anywhere. Oh, poor Willie must be so scared, John! I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I tried—I should have done more, I should have—”

Grey wrapped his mother in a tight embrace. “No, you shouldn’t. They would have killed you. Go inside.” 

His mother nodded and hurried into the house, dabbing at her eyes and nose with the bloody towel. “What are you going to do?”

Grey made a beeline for the phone and lifted the receiver. “Police thirteen-thirteen,” he said when the operator picked up. The woman muttered an acknowledgment and patched him through. The desk sergeant answered and Grey cut him off. “It’s Grey. Is Caswell still there?” 

“Oh, hello there, Grey. No, ‘fraid not. Something the matter? I thought you got canned.”

Grey ignored the sergeant’s rambling excuse for small talk. “My mother called half an hour ago. Where the hell is the car she was promised?” He didn’t bother to disguise his anger.

“That really was your mother? Huh, I thought it was a gag.”

“The fucking MacKenzies have kidnapped my son, and you thought it was a goddamn _gag_?” Grey roared. “You useless son of a bitch!” His vision went red around the edges. He ripped the phone from the wall and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the china hutch, the glass shattering into a million pieces. 

But Grey didn’t care. He might later, when he had his son back and everyone was safe and sound. But for now, a few broken teacups were the least of his worries. Fortnight Fraser had his son. But why?

_Revenge, you idiot. Scare tactics. Pick a fucking reason._

The gun had slid under a chair when Fraser—Goddamn him—had hit his mother, and Grey crouched to retrieve it. He checked the cylinder—still full—and stood again. He yanked his jacket off on his way to the coat closet, then his belt. Grey was dimly aware of his mother staring at him, still frightened.

“What are you going to do?” Benedicta asked, holding onto the gun when Grey handed it to her.

Grey kept his shoulder holster in the back of the closet. He tore it from the hanger and shoved his arms through it. “I’m going to go get my son.” He couldn’t look at his mother, because if he did, she’d see the murder in his eyes. Everything had settled into a hasty kind of fury, frighteningly calm. He threaded his belt through the rig as he put it back on. The leather creaked and hardware jangled. Grey adjusted the straps so they laid comfortably over his shoulders, took the revolver back from his mother, and slid it into his holster. High up on the shelf, he kept several speedloaders, loaded and ready to go. Two of these fit in pouches on his holster, a third and fourth he dropped into his pocket. He’d likely not live long enough to help Willie if he needed more than twenty-four rounds.

“How can I help?” The steel had returned to Benedicta’s voice, and Grey was proud as hell of her. 

He pulled his jacket back on and kissed his mother on the forehead. “Stay here in case that patrol car ever shows up.” Grey took an inkpen from his pocket and scribbled Jamie Fraser’s address on the back of the business card and gave it to his mother. “Give them this. That’s who has Willie, tell them I’ll need backup but I’m not waiting.” Grey reached into the back of the closet again and extracted a double barrelled shotgun from its resting place propped up in the corner. He took two shells from the box on the shelf, loaded it, and handed it to his mother. “If anyone comes through that door who is not me, Willie, or a policeman in uniform, shoot them.”

Benedicta took the shotgun and nodded grimly. She was a strong woman, Grey knew. She’d been scared and distraught when he came home, but she had compartmentalized that. God help the poor bastard who next threatened Benedicta Grey. “Be careful, John.”

There was no way in hell Grey was going to manage to be careful, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “You too.” 

A car was parked outside of Fraser’s house, gleaming and handsome like it had just rolled off the line in Detroit. It was not the same car that Grey had found in the backyard under a canvas. He parked his black Ford parallel to the curb in front of the Cadillac, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Whether it was just the knowledge that he was effectively acting as a vigilante or the surprise that someone was actually _here_ , he wasn’t sure. He drew his gun on his way to the front door.

There was no way to know what he’d find on the other side, and Grey’s heart pounded all the way up the steps. He took a deep breath, blew it out again, and shoved the door open.

Murdo Lindsay, of all the goddamn people, stood in the living room, a bucket in his hand. He dropped the bucket and sudsy water spilled out of it onto a terribly blood-stained rug.

Grey’s gorge rose and his blood ran cold. _Oh God, no._ “Murdo? What—who—is it—?”

“Grey! Jesus ye startled me.” Murdo ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions.

“Whose blood was that? Where’s Fraser?” Grey’s voice shook but there was nothing he could do about that. Would Fraser really have murdered a child in his living room? Maybe with his daughter home? No, not even…

“Murtagh, poor bastard,” Murdo said, casting a regretful look at the rug. The white soap bubbles were turning pink. 

Murtagh… the old man from the park. “Did Fraser kill him? Murdo, you have to tell me _everything_ you know.”

“What? No! Jamie would never hurt Murtagh. He was Fraser’s godfather.” Murdo shook his head. “Nay, it was the Italians. Wait.” Something dawned on Murdo and he looked slowly up at Grey, putting things together with a visible effort. “Wait, what are you doing here, Grey? You’re not supposed to be here.”

Grey blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the confusion and lay everything straight. “I’m looking for my son. Fraser took him. What do you mean, I’m not supposed to be here?” Had Murdo been undercover for so long that he’d forgotten he was a cop?

Something Grey said threw Murdo for a loop. “What? No, Jamie didn’t take your son, why would you think that?”

“I found his card,” Grey said through clenched teeth. He looked around him but the little house was clearly empty save for the two of them. “What the hell do you know, Murdo?”

All the color drained from Murdo’s face. “Oh. Oh, oh no, no, no. _Shit_. Dougal.”

“Dougal? Dougal who?” Impatience flared in Grey’s chest and he considered angling his weapon at the man to encourage him to open up.

“Dougal MacKenzie.”

“The businessman?” Grey asked. “Just spit it out, for the love of God!”

Murdo finally went on. “Yeah. Well, no. Not exactly. He said something about taking care of a meddlesome cop. I didn’t think he meant you though, Grey. But he sent me here to take care of this.” Murdo gestured at the gory rug. “And he sent Jamie after Capone. That’s who took his daughter. Or so Dougal says.” Murdo shrugged.

“Shit,” Grey hissed, rubbing his forehead with the hand not holding the gun. “Wait. Dougal _MacKenzie_ took my son. And the Italians—you mean the Outfit? They took Fraser’s daughter at the same time?”

Murdo shrugged and nodded, then corrected course and started hopping from foot to foot. “Oh! That doesn’t add up!”

Poor thing, he really was a terrible cop. But perhaps his heart was in the right place.

Grey made a _wrap it up_ motion with his hand. “Come on, you can do it.”

“Dougal has been angry at Jamie for weeks. He’s been muttering about teaching him a lesson. Then he sent some guys out tonight, guys I didn’t know. I think he’s orchestrated the whole thing. I don’t think the Outfit really has the girl!”

It was as good a lead as Grey was likely to get. “Where did Fraser go? Do you know?”


	15. Chapter 15

The address that Murdo had given Grey was for a warehouse closer to downtown than Grey would have guessed. But the white Mercedes with blood-stained seats from Fraser’s house was parked out front and empty, so this must have been the place.

The muffled sound of three measured shots from a handgun came from inside the warehouse. _Pop. Pop. Pop._ Immediately after was the frenetic spray of a Thompson submachine gun. “Christ in heaven,” Grey swore and drew his pistol as he made his way down the alley to a side door.

The door was unlocked, but Grey had to shove hard against it to get it to open wide enough to slip through. A body lay sprawled against the door, dressed in a dark suit that had been decent but was now covered in fresh blood and riddled with bullet holes. 

To Grey’s left was a metal staircase, another dead body crumbled at the bottom of it. Dark red streaks on the steps suggested that the man had been shot or stabbed on the stairs and then fallen down them. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Grey hissed under his breath. 

The sound of men shouting came from above him and to the left. At the top of the stairs was a kind of office or control room with a big glass window. A single gunshot, another shout, then the huge pane of glass shattered. The crash was deafening, the shards raining like hail, and Grey threw up one arm to shield his head. The limp figure of a man tumbled thirty feet through the broken window to the concrete floor. The sound his body made when he hit the ground—a horrible, crunching sound as his bones broke, and a terrible, wet sort of splatter—turned Grey’s stomach. 

Dear God, what in the hell had he walked into alone? There was a chance—not a good one, but a chance—that his son was here. There was a chance that Fraser’s daughter was here—also not good. But _someone_ was here killing people. 

“Where is yer fucking boss?” Grey recognized the Scottish voice roaring through the smashed-open window. Jamie Fraser.

That was good enough for him. Grey charged up the stairs, not bothering to dampen the sound of his footsteps. 

“I don’t know, Fortnight, I told ya—” A gunshot silenced the second voice.

Grey hit the office doorway at a run and skidded to a halt, his gun angled at Fraser. He wore no jacket, just the trousers, vest, and shirt he’d been in earlier at the police station. His clothing was stained with blood that didn’t appear to be his. “Drop the weapon and put your hands on your head, Mr. Fraser.”

Fraser blinked at Grey, his gaze taking him in from top to bottom and back up again. He flipped open the cylinder of his revolver, dropped the spent shells to the floor in a hail of brass, then dropped in a fresh batch from a speedloader. Fraser shook his head. “Now, I kent ye were meddlesome, Patrolman Grey, but I didnae expect that ye were stupid or suicidal.” He let his gun hang at the ready between them, though he didn’t aim at Grey. Small mercies. “This is family business and it doesnae concern ye. So I suggest ye leave before it gets ugly.”

“Oh, this _isn’t_ ugly?” Grey scoffed. The sound of footsteps on the stair sent Grey whirling around.

The first thing that Grey noticed about the man who came through the door was that he held a pistol casually aimed at Grey’s torso. The second thing Grey noticed was his impeccable pinstriped suit, round face, and heavy, dark brows under a white fedora cocked to the side. “Let’s get one thing straight, fellas,” the man said, his accent thick and hailing from New York. “I ain’t in the mood to be sparing lives. So one of you’d better explain why my warehouse is full of bodies before I make two more.”

_Shit. Holy fucking shit. Al Capone is holding a gun on me._

Jamie raised his pistol and angled it at Capone. The fury rolling off of him in waves was all the more frightening for how calm he looked. “Where’s my daughter? I ken ye have her. Where?”

Capone shrugged, confusion drawing his thick brows together. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I’m not about snatching kids, now, what are you trying to say?”

Fraser twitched and Capone turned his gun on him. Grey kept his own weapon sighted on Capone. _Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess._

“It’s a set-up,” Grey blurted. No one moved.

“What the hell would ye’ ken about it, _Patrolman_ Grey?”

_Fuck_.

Capone’s gun came back around toward Grey. “You a cop?”

“Not precisely at the moment,” Grey answered. He risked cutting a quick glare at Fraser. “I talked to Murdo. He was at your house.”

“Ye were at my _house?”_ Fraser demanded.

“You two can have your, um… lover’s spat on your own time, huh?” Capone gestured between Fraser and Grey with the barrel of his gun. “Or better yet, I’ll just kill ya. Who’s first? Fortnight or the copper?”

“It’s Dougal!” Grey shouted, desperate. “Dougal took your daughter and he took my son. And he sent you after the Outfit and me after you.” Fraser stared at him and didn’t move. His face went from calm rage to perfect neutrality. “Dougal set up the whole thing.”

For a long time the three men just stood there pointing guns at each other. Capone was growing visibly more impatient by the second. Grey was fully prepared to shoot Capone, but that would complicate everything even more. Fortnight Fraser’s face started to turn red, the muscles of his strong jaw twitched and jumping. Someone was going to have to do something and fast.

“I propose a temporary truce,” Fraser said to Capone. “No’ the Outfit and the MacKenzies. Fraser and Capone, man to man.”

Capone scoffed. “You’re nuts, but I’m listening.”

“I’ll stop killing yer men and ye dinna send yer goons after me. In return…” Fraser’s mouth worked but nothing came out at first. Then: “In return, I’ll bring down Dougal MacKenzie. And then I’ll retire. The MacKenzies will scatter wi’out Dougal or me to hold them together.”

“You’re offering me Chicago?” Capone asked, a feral kind of grin spreading his wide mouth. He tilted his chin in Grey’s direction. “And the cop?”

Fear shot through Grey and he took a deep breath, steadying himself, ready to fight his way out. Or to try, at least. If Al Capone killed him, who would save Willie? Grey swallowed hard and fought down the rising panic for his son.

“I need him,” Fraser said. “Alive.”

Capone wavered and made a wince like he thought the price of a tie was a little outrageous. 

“I’ll tie off the loose ends,” Fraser said, whatever the fuck that meant. “Dinna fash, he’ll no’ cause ye problems.”

It felt like half an hour that they just stood there while Capone mulled it over. At last, the gangster shrugged and lowered his gun. Fraser and Grey followed suit, with a great deal of reluctance on John’s part. 

Capone held his right hand out to Fraser, who shook it. “I’ll give ya twenty-four hours,” he said. “After that, if MacKenzie is still walking around a free man, all bets are off. Capiche?”

Fraser nodded. “Aye, it’s a bargain.” Then he dropped Capone’s hand and hurried through the door and down the stairs, leaving Grey to follow.

A _good_ cop would have arrested Capone. But tonight, being a good cop and being a good father were apparently mutually exclusive. So rather than arresting either of the two most notoriously dangerous gangsters in Chicago, Grey turned his back on one to follow the other.


	16. Chapter 16

“Where are we going?” Grey demanded. Jamie didn’t slow his long stride, forcing Grey to jog to keep up. “Fraser, stop. We need a plan. If you know where to find Dougal, we—”

Jamie’s temper had been at a simmer for hours and it finally flared and boiled over when Grey said the word _we_ for the third time. He spun on his heel, grabbed the front of Grey’s shirt in one tight fist and swung him around and against a brick wall. He pinned Grey to the wall with his forearm, gun still in his left hand. This close proximity was becoming a confusing habit. 

“Let’s get one thing straight right now,” Jamie growled. “There is no _we_. It’s yer fucking fault my daughter was kidnapped. If ye hadnae arrested me, I’d have been there. I’d have been able to protect her.”

Grey caught his breath and then his face screwed up into a furious scowl. “Do you honestly think that I intentionally put a child in danger, Mr. Fraser? I did not take your daughter. And if you’re so convinced that it’s my fault, why didn’t you just let Capone kill me?”

Actually, Grey made an excellent point. Why _didn’t_ he just let Capone kill him? What was one more dead cop to Capone or to Fortnight Fraser after all? “Ye said Dougal had yer son. Why would he do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know!” Grey shouted. “I don’t have any goddamn idea what the fuck is going on. I don’t know who Dougal is to you or to me, or why he would abduct two young children. But I do know that _we_ —” he flicked his wrist in a gesture that took in both of them— “are our children’s only hope right now. So if you’re willing to make a truce with fucking Al Capone, then maybe you can find it in your heart to work with a lousy cop on administrative leave for the purpose of saving two innocent children.”

Jamie let loose a frustrated growl and reluctantly stepped back, taking his arm off Grey’s chest. He _had_ made a deal with Capone, promising to tie up all the loose ends. He’d committed to taking down his uncle, either turning him into the authorities or killing him outright. Jamie knew that there was no way in hell both he and his uncle would live to see another day. Turning him in was never going to be an option. _This is family business_. 

Risking a glance over his shoulder, Jamie saw his car where he’d left it and another one, a Ford he thought. “That yer car, Grey?”

Grey nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Ye’re driving. Dougal kens my car.”

“So Dougal MacKenzie is your uncle.” Grey took a turn a little too fast and the tires squealed, but they kept all four wheels on the pavement. 

“Aye. Turn left up there.” Jamie pointed to the next intersection and then held onto the seat as Grey whipped them around the turn. “Christ, man, it’s no’ yer motorcycle.”

“Sorry,” Grey muttered, shifting into a higher gear. “So why would your uncle kidnap your daughter? Does he have a history of…” He trailed off. Neither of them wanted to think about the horrors that an abducted child might be subjected to.

Jamie shook his head. His jaw was starting to hurt with how much he’d been grinding his teeth in the last twenty-four hours. “No. Next right. Either he’s punishing me—second right—or trying to force me back into the fold. Slow down, we’re almost there.”

Grey let off the gas. “What do you mean, back into the fold? I have no idea what the MacKenzie pecking order looks like.”

“Ye ken how Capone runs the Outfit?”

“Yes.”

“Dougal is Capone. But less overtly hands-on. Next left. Third house on the right.” For the second time since they’d left the warehouse, he drew his gun and checked to be sure it was loaded. 

"Then why does everyone think you're the boss?" Grey parked the car in front of the house next to Dougal’s. He squinted at Dougal’s house, large but not terribly ostentatious, pale eyes darting around the neighborhood. He had excellent situational awareness, Jamie had to give the cop that.

"It's by design." Jamie got out of the car and shut the door behind him. "Dougal has all the contacts, the connections, the political power. I'm the muscle."

Grey blinked at Jamie over the hood of the car. "The fall guy, you mean. The decoy in case the authorities ever decide to do anything about the MacKenzies."

_Perceptive bastard._ Jamie nodded, hating to admit it in those terms. "Aye." 

"And you're just going to hand your uncle over to the police and hope the word of a convicted felon sticks?"

"Exonerated," Jamie corrected, carefully suppressing the automatic flair of rage at that fucker Randall, may he rot in hell. “And I didnae say that. Let me do the talking, aye?"

"If Dougal knows I'm a police officer, what are the chances he won't kill me on sight?" Grey asked, coming up alongside Jamie on the sidewalk as they made their way to Dougal’s front door.

"Slim to none. But better if ye dinnae annoy him straight away." Jamie didn't actually think Dougal would be home, but he might have taken Brianna here. He might have left her with her cousins while he sent Jamie off to be killed by Capone.

There were lights on at least, in the living room by the look of it. Jamie knocked on the front door, hard enough to wake the house. After a moment, the deadbolt turned and the door opened, the muzzle of a pistol leading the way. Geillis, Dougal’s girlfriend whom he refused to marry, stood behind it. 

Jamie grabbed the barrel, ducked out of the line of fire and wrenched it from her hands. She squeezed the trigger before Jamie got the gun away from her, the shot going up through the gutter of the house. Movement in his peripheral vision told Jamie that Grey hadn’t been hit. “Weel, that’s no’ verra hospitable,” Jamie said, shoving the door open and pushing his way into the house.

Geillis backpedaled, giving up ground immediately and letting Jamie and Grey inside. “Jamie, lad. To what do I owe the pleasure? I didnae ken ye were coming over.” Her fear was mostly an act, Jamie figured. She was just as ruthless as Dougal, but sneakier about it. She’d been widowed at least twice, and rumor had it she’d killed both of her husbands, God rest their souls. She’d probably kill Dougal too if she thought she’d benefit from it. Christ, they deserved each other.

But she wasn’t stupid. Geillis knew there was zero chance of overpowering Jamie in a straight fight. “Did ye no’? Do ye always answer the door in yer nightgown wi’ a gun, then?”

Geillis wore a pure white nightgown, the material so gauzy and thin that it was readily apparent she was naked underneath. She set her jaw defiantly and made no attempt to cover herself. Her gaze darted from Jamie to Grey and back again.

“My uncle’s no’ at home, I take it?”

“He’s working late. Ye ken how it is.” Geillis fixed Jamie with a deadly glare, like she was calculating how much arsenic it would take to kill a man his size.

“What a saint,” Jamie deadpanned. He barged further into the house, Geillis’ gun still in his hand. “Is Brianna here?”

“Or my son?” Grey interjected, obviously incapable of remaining quiet and doing as he was told. “A boy with dark hair, about so tall. Name’s William.” It took considerable effort, but Jamie valiantly managed not to roll his eyes. _Why not play all yer cards at once, eejit._

Geillis sneered at them both. “Dougal MacKenzie doesnae bring his work home wi’ him.”

So he _did_ have the children. “And where is dear Uncle Dougal working tonight, hmm?” Jamie poked his head into his cousins’ bedrooms, finding them all pretending to still be asleep and nothing else amiss. He came back to Geillis and Grey in the living room. 

Grey stood like he was accustomed to a fight, his body loose and ready to move. Perhaps Jamie had been wrong when they first met. Maybe it wasn’t that he was too much of a coward to get into fights. Perhaps his face was still so fine-boned because he was just that good at not getting beat up, his recent run-in with the wee pack of thugs notwithstanding.

“I dinna ken,” Geillis lied. She was a good liar, a very good liar. She barely blinked and held Jamie’s gaze the entire time. 

Jamie’s temper flared again, fear for his little girl giving way to rage. He grabbed Geillis by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh. She winced. “Where did he take the children, Geillis?” Jamie pressed. “A warehouse? The docks? Where, damn ye!”

Geillis spat in Jamie’s face and he shoved her away. She tripped on the hem of her rather useless nightgown and sprawled on the floor with a shout. “Arse!” she yelled up at him. “Fuck you and yer pet cop. Aye, I ken exactly where Dougal is, but I willnae tell ye.” She climbed to her feet, face red and hands shaking with her ire. “Are ye going to beat it out of me? Dougal will kill ye and yer brats if ye do and ye ken that.”

Dougal would probably try to kill him anyway, but that was neither here nor there. No, Jamie wouldn’t beat Geillis. He wouldn’t have touched her under lesser circumstances, but with Bree’s life on the line, all bets were off. He wouldn’t beat the information out of Geillis because he didn’t have that kind of time. His daughter and Grey’s son didn’t have that kind of time.

“Dinna let her leave this room,” Jamie said to Grey, and stomped off, drawing a knife from the pocket of his trousers. Dougal’s phone was in the hallway off the dining room. His shoes stomped on the wooden floor, the expensive rug doing little to dampen the racket. With a flick of his wrist, he severed the line. Geillis absolutely knew where Dougal was, and given half the chance she’d find a way to warn him. 


	17. Chapter 17

“What did you mean earlier when you said that Dougal might be trying to bring you back into the fold?” It was nearly one in the morning and there were hardly any cars on the road. Grey pushed his Ford as fast as he could safely take it through the city, grateful he’d fueled it up the day before. “Do you mean to say that you’re out of the fold? And what does that even mean?”

“When my ex-wife died, I told Dougal I wanted out, that I was going to walk away,” Fraser said. “Take that right, it’s faster.” 

“That’s a one-way street.” Grey made the right anyway.

“I ken that. Are ye going to write yerself a citation for it?” Fraser teased, and Grey rolled his eyes. “Brianna had already lost two parents, I didnae want her to lose a third. If ye hadnae noticed, my particular line of work is less than ideal for raising a bairn.”

Grey blinked. “Wait. You were divorced? Two parents… What?”

Fraser clammed up. “Nevermind. Forget I said anything. Left, up there.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. You’re just going to kill me when this is over anyway, right? What difference does it make at this point what I know?” 

“That remains to be seen,” Fraser said. “The short version is, I was in prison when Brianna was born. Claire, her mother, fell in love with someone else while I was locked up.”

“Oh,” Grey said, at a loss for what else to say to something like that. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Fraser answered. He paused, bordering on an honest-to-God _dither_ before he eventually muttered, “Weel. I dinnae suppose ye’ll have much to say about it.” He blew out another heavy breath. “Claire was happier wi’ Annalise than she ever was wi’ me. And I loved Claire, more than anything. But I could see that if anyone loved Claire as I did, it was Annalise. It hurt to let her go, but it was best for everyone, Brianna included. She deserved her mothers to be happy.” 

Fraser’s explanation brought to mind what he’d said to his daughter before he’d taken him into custody. “Oh, so that’s what you meant when you told Brianna to tell her Mam and Mama that she loved them.”

Fraser swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw tensing and bulging. He nodded. “Aye. They were both killed in the same car accident. Bree has a photograph of them by her bed. She remembers them in her prayers.”

“That’s… very good of you to do that,” Grey said and it was the understatement of the year. It was unheard of, downright bizarre for a man to embrace such a situation—even a man who apparently kissed other men, at least on occasion. Grey cast a quick glance at Fraser, who stared through the windshield as if he were the one driving. The man had the most bewildering ability to conceal absolutely everything from view. It might have been Grey’s imagination, but he thought he detected something softer in the set of his brows, in the tension of his jaw. He really had loved Brianna’s mother that much. Something flipped in Grey’s gut and the urge to kiss Fraser again rose up in his chest, stealing his breath. Oh no, it was back. The attraction. The longing. For a man who’d probably kill him before the sun came up.

Then again…

Maybe not. 

“Can I ask ye a question, now, Patrolman Grey?” Fraser asked after a long beat.

“Yes, of course. Call me John though, please. It does rather seem to be just the two of us against a major crime syndicate.” Grey managed not to let go of the uneasy chuckle threatening to bubble up and out.

Fraser ran a finger down the bridge of his nose. “That’s what I wanted to ask ye, actually. When yer son was taken, did you no’ ask for help from yer friends?”

Grey scoffed. “What friends? You mean the police?”

“Weel… aye.”

“It’s a terribly long story and not one I enjoy delving into, but…” Grey took a deep breath and blew it out again before plunging on. “The short version is that I don’t have any friends on the force. In fact, I suspect my captain actually wishes me dead.” 

“What’d ye do? Ye’re no’ _that_ terrible of a cop, are ye?” Grey could feel Fraser’s eyes settling on him.

“I… Well, I turned in a fellow officer for murder. He was arrested, tried, convicted, and quickly killed in prison.” Grey swallowed hard, fighting back the useless, misplaced guilt over Randall’s death. “You knew him actually.” Grey made a left, his gaze fixed on the road even though Fraser’s eyes were burning a hole in his skull. “Johnathan Randall.”

_“Jack_ Randall?” Jamie sputtered. “Ye’re the one who testified against Jack Randall?”

Grey nodded.

“Did ye ken me? When first we met?”

“No, I didn’t. I found out later,” Grey said. Something in the air shifted and settled. He couldn’t have named the sensation except something between them changed. John just hoped it was for the better. “I knew the name of the man who’d been wrongfully convicted, but never saw you. But I put away a cop whom I saw firsthand murder the man you were charged with killing. Whatever friendships I might have had on the police force died the day I gave my statement. So no, I don’t have friends to help me save my son. And if they ever sent a patrol car to my house—which I honestly doubt they did—the chances of them catching up to us are abysmal. And the chances of them actually being helpful are worse.” Grey paused, let the silence hang heavy in the car. “I’m sorry.”

The warehouse that Fraser had directed Grey to looked to be unoccupied from the outside, the street completely deserted. He parked the car on the street and climbed out.

Fraser sighed and shut the car door behind him, their eyes meeting over the roof of the vehicle. “Dinnae be sorry, John. If ye hadnae done that, I’d be rotting in Alcatraz right now. Or fried. Ye’re the first cop I’ve ever relied on before, and the first one I’ve exchanged more than two words with wi’out wanting to beat ye to death.”

“For what it’s worth,” Grey said, an inexplicably shy grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think I really count right now. I’m actually on leave without pay for questioning you earlier. Does that make you feel better about the situation?”

Fraser smiled, a strained, troubled expression, and with good reason. But a smile nonetheless. “Aye, a bit.”

* * *

The warehouse had been just as devoid of life on the inside as it had looked from the outside. Jamie watched Grey take mental notes of the contents, probably making some rough inventory to give to the feds. That was fine with Jamie, even though his fingerprints were all over this place. It was primarily used to alter cars and manufacture the various tools they used to smuggle booze through the city or across state lines. There wasn't a lot of liquor here, but Dougal stored what surplus he acquired behind a series of false walls. They’d checked all of these spaces, some of them large enough for a full-grown man to comfortably hide. But there was no indication that Brianna or William had been there at all.

“Shit,” Grey swore, kicking a lamppost when they were outside again. “Shit! Where the hell could he have taken them?”

The man had been keeping a white-knuckle grip on his wits all night and they were slipping. Jamie wasn’t far behind him in the wits-losing department, but seeing his one ally start to crack put a necessary pause on his own breakdown. “Aye, John, that’s enough.” Grey had pulled back a fist, preparing to drive it into the lamppost. Jamie caught his wrist in a firm grip and arrested its trajectory. 

“Goddamn it all!” Grey struggled against Jamie’s hold.

“Broken fingers willnae help anyone, ken?” Jamie let go of John’s arm. He didn’t back off, suppressing the urge to wrap Grey in a hug—and dear God, why was that the urge? Despite everything, every fucking stupid thing, Jamie still couldn’t shake the sense that there was some force pulling him toward John. Drawing him in. He wanted to hold him and reassure him that everything would be well, that they’d find their children. He might have offered Claire such platitudes, but that wouldn’t do with Grey. 

Tears shone in Grey’s eyes and his face was red in the flickering, gastly light from the streetlamps. “You’re right, I know. It’s just— _fuck_. I want that bastard behind bars so badly I can taste it. And if he’s harmed one hair on my boy’s head…” 

Madness overtook Jamie then, that’s the only explanation for it. Absolute insanity. Desperation. Loneliness. Whatever it was, Jamie gave in. He gave in and he put his arms around John. And for a terrifying succession of heartbeats, Grey stood stiff, closed off and cold.

Then Grey gave in. Something broke loose, and this man, who had not a friend in the world it seemed, let Jamie comfort him. He put his arms around Jamie’s middle and rested his cheek on Jamie’s shirt that was still crusted with someone else’s blood.

“I’m sorry,” Grey said, his voice muffled against Jamie’s chest. “Please don’t think less of me. I just… I’m so scared for my little boy.” He let out a short laugh that sounded incredibly self-conscious and pulled away. “You must think me a terrible coward.”

“Nay, John, I dinnae think that,” Jamie replied. Grey seemed to relax some and took a deep breath. “There should be more cops like ye.” _Why the devil would he say that?_ But he meant it, so Jamie let it ride. “More fathers, too. I willnae rest until both our bairns are home safe where they belong.” _Or die trying_ went unsaid. 

_Murtagh. If ye’re by my side still… we need ye. Claire, Annalise, watch over our lass. Keep her strong._

Grey locked eyes with Jamie, holding his gaze or searching his face. “Whatever happens… thank you. You’re a good man, Jamie Fraser.”

There it was, that pull. The inescapable tug drawing them closer and closer together. Something happened, another of those odd, subtle shifts that Jamie didn’t know the word for. Then John’s mouth was on his, his tongue brushing over the seam of Jamie’s lips. Belatedly, Jamie reached out and touched John again, his hands settling on his waist. Grey twisted his fingers into Jamie’s sleeves. And in that moment, it was very clearly _them_ against _the world_. 

_They_ would get their children back. _They_ would bring down Dougal MacKenzie. _They_ would undo nearly ten years of scheming and bloodshed. Whatever happened, _they_ were in it together.

Thank God the street was deserted.

Jamie pulled back, hating to do it, but growing impatient for the hunt. “Ye’re no’ too bad yerself, Grey. For a cop.” He winked at John. Or rather, tried to, and John laughed at him. “Let’s check the docks next. Dougal has a lot of contacts around Lake Michigan and into Canada.”

“Good call.” Grey nodded and straightened, his resolve returned as they made their way back to the car. “Can I ask you a question?” Grey asked, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Shoot,” Jamie said, settling into the passenger seat.

“Your nickname…”

“Fortnight, ye mean?”

“Yes.” Grey started the engine and pulled back onto the empty road. “What the hell does it mean?”

Jamie arched a brow at John. “I’m a fortnight tall.”

“Right, that’s what I heard, but…” If Grey thought much harder about this, he’d sprain something. 

“I’m six-foot-four. Ye ken the way to the lake, I take it?” 

Grey rolled his eyes. That was becoming an endearing habit. “Yes, I do, I’ve only lived in Chicago since I was nineteen.” He made a right and then gunned it. “So you're tall. I still don’t get what that has to do with two weeks.”

Jamie almost pinched the bridge of his nose, but resisted. This was entertaining at least. “How long have ye been out of the UK?”

“How did you know I was—”

“Yer accent. Ye sound like ye’re from the middle of the Atlantic.”

“Oh, of course,” John said, nodding. “My father died when I was twelve and my mother moved my brother and me to America just after that. She said it was either America or Aberdeen, and I really didn’t want to go to Aberdeen.”

That probably deserved some unpacking, but Jamie didn’t think now was the time to be getting any deeper than they already were. “And ye’ve forgotten the metric system already?”

“Well, I—”

“How tall is six-four in meters, John?”

“About two… _Oh_ , I get it.” After a pause, Grey laughed. “That’s a lot of work for a mob name.”

“Aye weel. It followed me across the pond.”


	18. Chapter 18

Jamie was exhausted. He was fast approaching the twenty-four-hours-awake mark, which was hard enough without doing it on top of a string of sleepless nights haunted by Angus’s death. Add to that twenty-four hours, the stress of once again not finding a job, being arrested—sort of. Then finding his daughter missing, his godfather dying in his arms, declaring war on the Outfit, subsequently negotiating a truce with Al Capone personally, forming an alliance with the copper who’d arrested him, _and then kissing said cop in the street_ … Every blink was a battle.

He cast a glance at Grey in the driver seat. He didn't seem to be faring much better. Perhaps it was the dim illumination from the sparse safety lights sporadically functional around the docks, forcing their way through the windshield, but Jamie thought his face appeared gaunt. Grim determination was the only thing keeping them moving. Desperation, dread, fear. They hadn't talked about what would happen when the dust settled. They didn't strategize what they would do when they successfully rescued the bairns. Hadn't mentioned what _taking down Dougal MacKenzie_ looked like. 

And the kiss. _Kisses_ , now, plural. They didn't discuss that either.

Grey parked his black Ford in a gravel lot that held a handful of cars in various states of repair and luxury. They didn't speak as they got out. The sound of the car doors closing felt oddly muffled and yet deafening, swallowed up by the gentle sound of the lake lapping against the boat slips. Their shoes crunched in the gravel, both of them with their guns in their hands. Grey had stopped asking questions, either trusting Jamie to tell him what he needed to know, or too damn tired to care about the details.

They approached a gate in a chain link fence that led to the private docks, an expensive, imported roadster parked haphazardly near it. “He’s here,” Jamie said, changing direction and heading for the car. “It’s Dougal’s.” 

John made a beeline for it, giving it a quick inspection. It was obviously empty, and there was no apparent sign that the children had been in the car. “He has a private dock here?”

“Aye, toward the end of the third row.” Jamie would have run if he thought he could manage it and still be ready for a fight. He was on nothing but adrenaline at this point, and they had no idea what they’d find on the boat.

Jamie had been on Dougal’s boat several times. It was his personal vessel, designed for style and comfort. Not the nondescript things with outboard motors Rupert and his men used to ferry booze from Canada. Dougal’s berth was easy enough to find; just a short scurry to the third row, then clear to the end of the doc. Jamie made the left, John hot on his heels. There was no keeping quiet on the planks, clomping and groaning under their weight.

The lights from the shore didn’t shine well this far, and the inky black waters of Lake Michigan twinkled back at them. The _White Rose of Scotland_ wasn’t docked. 

“Damn it,” Jamie hissed, staring at the empty berth in disbelief. And why shouldn’t he believe it? Nothing else had come up aces, why should they start now? 

John’s shoulders slumped and he looked around them as if the boat might appear out of thin air. “Shit.” John sighed. “Where could he have gone?”

“If I say, ‘Out on the lake…?’” Jamie teased, blaming his nerves and the stress for making him an imbecile.

“I’ll shoot you.”

“Sounds fair,” Jamie said, hopping aboard the nearest small craft with a motor. The keys weren’t in the ignition. And after a quick fumbling around the helm, decided that they weren’t in any other convenient location and disembarked.

Jamie tried six more boats before he found keys. “Aha!” He nodded at the pier where Grey still stood. “Cast off that line, aye? And then hop in.”

John didn’t move. “Are you intending to steal that?”

“Christ above, Grey,” Jamie groaned, rolling his eyes. “I’m borrowing it. Would ye cast off and come aboard? Bree and Willie dinna have time for your moral compass to become inflexible now."

Grey grumbled, but caved immediately, untying the mooring lines and tossing them onto the deck. He hopped aboard as Jamie started the engine. It was a small craft, the kind with a single cabin below deck. Hopefully no one was sleeping down there.

No one came shouting or cursing at them when Jamie steered the boat away from the dock and toward open water, so they were probably alone. After traveling north for a time, John asked loudly over the noise of the engine, "Do you have any idea where he might have gone? It's rather a large lake and Dougal has an enormous head start."

“There are a few places near the shore several miles out from here” Jamie answered. “Where there’s no commercial docks and much less incidental traffic. Sometimes Dougal’s men hide out there when the feds are on the prowl.”

Grey held tight to the railing as Jamie took a tight turn at speed, his arm close enough to Jamie that they brushed against each other. “If he’s gone to Canada…” Grey began and trailed off.

“We’ll still find them,” Jamie answered automatically. He looked over at Grey, who scanned the dark horizon. The moon was at least approaching full and high enough still to afford them some light. Thinking only that they could both benefit from a little physical reassurance right about then, Jamie took John’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze. When this was all over… Well, it didn’t matter.

_Christ, Murtagh, we could really use ye by our side right now,_ Jamie thought. A pang struck him in his chest, angry grief burning his eyes and twisting his guts. Dear God, he really was gone, wasn’t he? Jamie swallowed hard and, for lack of any better strategy, prayed. 

_Lord, that they may be safe. Help us find them._ And then, _Sassenach… watch over our lass. God, forgive me for what I ken I must do._ Over and over, different combinations, different words in his mind, all the same plea in his heart: _Help._

“What’s that?” John let go of the railing to point to their two o’clock. The boat jostled and his other hand grabbed onto Jamie’s arm to steady himself. The touch lingered, John’s palm warm through his sleeve in the cold night. They’d be lucky not to die of hypothermia.

Jamie followed Grey’s finger, spotting the faint outline of a boat. She bore no running lights, but a sliver of yellow light peered just above the waterline through a porthole. He killed the engine and let the craft coast quietly toward the other boat. A veil of clouds blew away from the moon, bathing the dark craft in a silvery glow. 

It was her, the _White Rose of Scotland_. 

_“Dio gratias,”_ Jamie breathed, meaning it with every bone in his body. “That’s Dougal’s boat.”

“How the hell…”

“Dinna look the gift horse in the mouth. It’s about time something went our way,” Jamie said, easing their borrowed craft alongside the _White Rose_. 

Grey crossed to the other side of the boat, leaned over the railing, and rather recklessly grasped a fender dangling from the _White Rose of Scotland._ Jamie joined him, snatching up the mooring line and climbing over to Dougal’s boat while John’s strong grip kept him from succumbing to Newton’s third law of motion. 

Jamie’s feet came down directly onto a man sitting on the deck against the bulkhead. It had hidden him from view, affording him plenty of opportunity to abush them. The man dragged Jamie to the deck with both arms around his legs. Jamie came down hard on his hip and elbow, barely managing to get his arm out in time to avoid a smashed face.

The man leapt onto Jamie’s back and got an arm around his throat. Jamie thrashed at first, fought to get control of his airway. Then he stamped down on the rising panic, instead taking hold of his own fury. _Fuck,_ to get _this_ close to Bree and then _die_ —

A single gunshot.

Blood splattered the deck around him, smacking hot and sticky against the back of his neck. The arm around Jamie’s throat went slack. The body on top of him went limp and heavy. There were footsteps, a distant shout. 

Jamie shoved the body off of him and Grey grabbed him roughly under the arm and hauled him to his feet. Jamie looked down at the body. He didn’t know the man; he probably wasn’t family. He’d died fast though. Grey’s had been a clean shot to the head, no exit wound.

John’s gun was still in his hand. “Are you alright?”

Jamie nodded and coughed to clear his throat. “Aye. Dougal’s no’ alone. Drop!” Jamie drew his gun as John complied, and shot the man charging them. He looked at his face but couldn’t identify him. It hadn’t occurred to Jamie before now that Dougal might not be alone, that he might be killing more of his kinsmen than just his uncle.

He looked down at the man John had shot. There wasn’t much face left to identify, but beyond light hair—probably ginger but impossible to tell in the moonlight—he didn’t look familiar. Jamie let out a breath, a little relieved at least. Even if it was family, they were complicit in Dougal’s deeds at best and willing accomplices at worst. 

“Jamie,” Grey barked, snapping his attention back to the present. 

_Right. Fight now, guilt later._

More footsteps on the boards behind him. Jamie whirled and came face to face with the long barrel of shotgun. He shoved against Grey, throwing themselves apart and splitting the target an instant before the _boom_ echoed over the lake. A follow-up _click-clack,_ and Jamie charged the shooter at a dead run. 

Thank God it was close range. They went down in a heap, Jamie getting a fist around the barrel and shoving it up. The man fired, the shot missing everything but dark sky. 

Jamie wrenched the gun free and slammed the stock into the man’s face with a horrific crunch. Blood poured from his nose and mouth, staining his teeth. It was silvery black and otherworldly in the moonlight. 

The man howled in pain as he staggered back. He barely kept his feet under him. Jamie pumped the slide— _click-clack._ He pulled the trigger. The shotgun belched less than three feet from his target. The man’s chest and upper stomach erupted, the buckshot tearing through his torso. Jamie left him where he fell.

Turning back around to check on Grey, Jamie found only an empty deck. “Shite,” Jamie breathed, doing his best to ignore the new flavor of fear making his heart race. 

He hadn’t heard a splash, but on impulse Jamie rushed to the railing nearest where John had just been and scanned the narrow space between the two boats. Nothing. _Fuck_ , what could have happened to him? 

Of course, he’d probably gone below looking for the kids. Christ, if he ran into Dougal alone… 

It took a moment for Jamie to orient himself on the boat, then rushed forward to the hatch leading below. He came around the wall of the upper cabin and skidded to a halt. Rupert stood there, holding what appeared to be Grey’s own pistol to his head. He had one of John’s arms wrenched back at a terrible angle, holding all the leverage.

“Drop it, Fortnight,” Rupert said.

Jamie dropped the shotgun and it rattled to the deck. He’d dropped his own pistol—well, Murtagh’s—when he wrestled the shotgun away from the other goon. He wasn’t completely unarmed, but he wouldn’t be able to get to his knife—and effectively employ it—before Rupert squeezed the trigger on John.

He met Grey’s eyes for a moment. John was absolutely livid. Heaven help Rupert if John got away from him. Bloodied nose and black eye notwithstanding, Grey had already killed one man tonight and seemed perfectly fine with a second.

“Alright, Rupert," Jamie said. "We can talk like men. Is himself aboard?”

“And my son—” 

Rupert twisted Grey’s arm farther into the hold, choking off his question with a grunt of pain. “Dougal would like a word, aye.” He paused to let some wretched grief pass over his face. “And I would verra much like to no’ bury anymore kin because of ye, cousin.”

Jamie braced himself for the wave of guilt that always hit him when he thought of Angus, but it was just determination to get to his daughter. “I didnae kill Angus, Rupert. I dinna ken what Dougal told ye—”

“Ye werenae even at the funeral, man.” Rupert looked on the verge of tears. He and Angus had been close, practically brothers. As much as Angus’s death had hurt Jamie, it was incomparable to the injury it must have done Rupert.

“Aye, ye’re right,” Jamie replied, taking a cautious step toward him, then another. “Put the gun down and we can talk about it. Brianna’s in danger. Ye ken that, do ye no’?”

“That’s enough,” Rupert shouted, turning the gun on Jamie, who froze and showed his palms. He gestured toward the stairs with a twitch of the gun. “Go on. He’s below.” Rupert shoved Grey in the direction of the hatch.

John stumbled and Jamie caught him round the middle, dragging him back to stand upright. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Jamie made a Scottish noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat and gave John’s arm a squeeze before letting him go. Jamie took the stairs first. Maybe Dougal wouldn’t shoot him on sight if he was the first person he saw on the stairs.

At least the lights were on down here, yellow and ghastly incandescent. A girl's muffled shriek drew Jamie's attention sharply to his right, his heart skipping half a dozen beats. Brianna was crouched on the floor in one corner of the cabin. Tears streaked her red face, a rag or some bit of cloth tied around her face as a gag. Her hands were bound behind her. She was terrified and exhausted and worse for wear, but didn’t appear injured from here. Huddled close to her in much the same condition was a boy about her age. He had dark hair and John Grey’s fierce anger burned through the fear in his eyes.

“Bree!” Jamie lurched toward the children.

“Ah-ah,” Dougal’s cool voice said and the ratcheting sound of a hammer being drawn back on a revolver. Jamie froze. His uncle held a gun angled at the children. “That’s close enough, Jamie, lad.”


	19. Chapter 19

Jamie glared daggers at his uncle, just casually aiming a gun at the two children. Including _his daughter_. He growled low in his throat, keeping the boiling rage in check just enough to start formulating a plan of attack. John took a slow step to Jamie’s right, standing beside him but not so close that they wouldn’t be able to move. The boy, Willie apparently, locked eyes with Grey. Something passed between them, some silent conversation that Jamie could sense from the lad’s posture, but he didn’t watch it happen. Rupert came down the stairs behind them. Odds were good he still had Grey's gun trained on their backs. Which meant that Jamie's body was the only thing between the bairns and a second gun pointed at them.

There was no way to get to Dougal without him shooting the children. There was a time that Jamie would have been certain that his uncle would never murder a child, certainly not his own niece. But there was no way in hell he would risk his daughter's life for an optimistic character assessment of the man currently threatening her with a gun. He'd have to draw his fire.

"Ye made yer point, Dougal." By some miracle Jamie kept his voice steady. The fingers of his left hand twitched, itching to end this, however bloody it had to be. "Ye warned me no' to fail ye with Bowles and I did." Maybe he could talk their way through this, at least to start. Get Dougal to hand the children over to Grey, so he could take them out of here. Then Jamie could finish this once and for all.

Dougal turned his attention to John, as if just noticing him for the first time. He narrowed his eyes, drawing his thick brows low. It was his body count stare. "What in the hell are ye doing alive?" Scoffing, Dougal shook his head in disgust. "Christ, Jamie. I kent ye'd gone soft, but I didnae expect that ye were mad enough to cooperate wi' the police. I guess ye didnae learn yer lesson from Randall afterall. I kent I should have let him do as he pleased.” 

"What do you mean, you should have _let_ Randall?" Grey asked, drawing an angry glare from Dougal.

"Ye ken my nephew is a convicted murderer, aye?"

"Exonerated," Grey corrected. "Answer the question, please."

_Christ, man, shut up,_ Jamie thought in John's direction. _Stop being a cop before it gets us all killed._

Dougal mulled it over, then his shoulder twitched in a hint of a shrug. "Randall was on my payroll."

"Why?" Jamie demanded, suddenly unable to face anymore unanswered questions.

Dougal gave him a look like he thought Jamie particularly dense. “Why have I ever done anything for ye, lad? I’m ye’re chieftain, am I no’? Did I no’ bring ye and yer wife here, give ye a better life? And all I asked in return was yer loyalty. But it was never enough for ye, was it? No, ye couldn’t be content to be Fortnight Fraser, could ye. Ye had to be _Da_. When Claire got pregnant that was all ye cared about. Ye tried to turn away from yer _kin_. After all I did for ye.”

Stupid, automatic guilt twisted Jamie’s guts. He had done that. He’d tried to walk away before Bree was even born. He didn’t want this life for his wife and child. There were too many ways it could have ended in tragedy. And Dougal _had_ done so much for him, for them. It was Dougal who’d taught Jamie to fight, to run contraband, to lead men, run the business of organized crime. He’d even been the one to encourage Jamie to marry Claire in the first place, though that had taken minimal effort on Dougal’s part. He’d brought Claire with them from Scotland, moved Jamie’s whole family. Brought the seeds of their home with them across the Atlantic ocean, then halfway across America and started it all anew. Cultivated prosperity for everyone just because they were family.

Everything Jamie had in this world was because of Dougal. 

Jamie looked at his daughter, terrified and expecting her father to protect her. For the first time he noticed the children had managed to find each other’s hands behind their backs and held tight to each other. Whatever Dougal had put them through, they’d found some strength or comfort in each other. 

But Dougal hadn’t given him Brianna, Claire had. And Annalise had helped Claire build a home for their daughter when Jamie couldn’t. And Jamie hadn’t been able to because of Dougal. And Brianna was all that mattered. For her sake, Jamie could live with the guilt of turning away from his uncle. “What do ye want, Dougal? An apology? My gratitude?” 

“Ye’re loyalty, ye ungrateful bastard!” Dougal shouted and the children flinched. 

Grey made a noise like a low growl in the back of his throat. If he could just get the gun pointed anywhere but the children… “Then yer problem is wi’ me, no’ the bairns. Let them leave with Grey and we’ll work it out, aye?”

Dougal scoffed. “Do ye think me daft, lad? The cop isnae leaving here alive.”

Willie gasped and John hissed at him to be quiet.

“I thought for sure when that slut wife of yers left ye for _a woman_ , ye’d get it through yer thick skull.”

“Dinnae speak of them again!” Jamie roared before he could get a grip on his rage. He took a sharp breath and lowered his voice. “Ye’ll no’ speak ill of Claire or Annalise again. Or I will kill you.”

“I did ye a favor, Jamie,” Dougal said. “I saved ye the shame of yer failed marriage. I spared yer daughter the indecency and confusion of watching her mother play house with another woman.”

“You… what?” Surely Dougal didn’t mean—

“Why do ye think I took care of everything so fast?” Dougal asked. “Shame about their brakes. Such fragile things, automobiles. Just a little damage to the wrong part and over the bridge ye go.”

The wretched pain and grief from four months ago came crashing back to Jamie, knocking the air from his lungs. Brianna gaped at Dougal in abject horror, silent tears streaming down her face. “You… murdered them. And then ye brought me the news yerself.” Jamie tasted bile. The absolute coldhearted, _evil_ of it. He knew that Dougal was a murderer. He knew that he would do anything to further his own goals. But this… Jamie stared at Dougal and didn’t even see a human anymore. 

A wicked grin spread Dougal’s lips. “Aye, he can be taught after all.”

Everything Dougal had said to Jamie since Claire and Annalise had died, all the nudges back toward the family, drawing him closer and closer. The grip tightening, strangling him. 

“I was beginning to suspect ye were brainless,” Dougal went on. “Ye didnae take the hint when the women died. Ye stubbornly didnae quit after ye were sacked from every job ye found. You were so careful too, to hide who ye were.”

“That was yer doing too, then?” Jamie demanded. “Every last horrible thing that’s happened to me since we came to Chicago, it was all yer doing.” Perhaps he could have turned a blind eye to costing him work. With time, Jamie might have moved past prison. But Claire and Annalise… never. That was unforgivable. 

Jamie spread his arms wide in invitation. “Finish it then,” he said. Absolutely _anything_ to get the gun off the children. “If I’m such a liability to ye, such an inconvenience, kill me.”

Brianna screamed and tried to scramble toward him, but Willie held onto her hand, kept her close. _Oh, good lad._

“Make an example of me. Rupert here can take my place.” Out of the corner of Jamie’s eye, he could see Bree and it crushed his heart. What would happen to her when—

_Focus, Fraser._

It might have been Claire’s voice in his head. 

Dougal still wore that slimy, sinister grin. “There’s a thought.” The gun wavered, twitched toward Jamie, but not enough. 

“What do ye want, Dougal?” Jamie pressed. “Do ye want me on my knees, execution style?” He knelt, dropping down with a thud onto the deck, arms still spread. 

The gun twitched again. _Just a little more._

“Rupert,” Dougal said. “Do it.”

Jamie didn’t turn around. He met Brianna’s terrified eyes. “I love ye, _a chuisle.”_ _Have faith, lass. Be brave._ He would have given anything to tell her that, but if Dougal didn’t call his bluff, they were all done for.

The silence stretched and Dougal inched the gun toward them some more. 

“Dougal…” Rupert began, faltering. “This… it’s no’ what ye said.” The fear was evident in his voice.

Dougal brought the gun around—fucking _finally_ —and aimed it at Jamie’s face. A deep, dark dread slithered around in Jamie’s guts. He swallowed it down before it could rise up like panic. 

“He killed Angus, Rupert!” Dougal yelled. “If ye’re no man enough to do it, then I will.”

Time stopped.

Jamie forced himself to keep his eyes open.

Forced himself to watch Dougal’s hand tense.

To see his finger squeeze the trigger.

The shot rang out at the same time John jumped in front of Jamie. 

Jamie spun, bringing himself up and to the right. He snatched Rupert’s gun from him. Finishing the spin, he aimed at Dougal and fired.

He got one shot off. Rupert hit him from behind. The crack in his skull was deafening. The world heaved. The children screamed through their gags, somewhere very far away. 

Jamie didn’t want to kill Rupert. He wanted it to be over. Dizzy, Jamie swung his pistol hand blindly. He got lucky, the gun taking Rupert across the temple. He fell into a heap on the deck. 

Another muffled shout. Between the boat rocking and the head trauma, Jamie could hardly see straight. He turned in time to see Dougal, shirt wet with blood, rush him. 

Dougal’s grip on Jamie’s throat was crushing. Within moments, his lungs burnt, his airway completely cut off. 

Jamie grappled with his left hand, tried to pry Dougal off of him. Heaved up with his hips, but couldn’t get leverage. He fumbled for his ankle with his right hand, going for his knife.

Dougal snarled on top of him, crazed, bloodthirst in his eyes. Where had his gun gone? _Shit_. So close to the knife.

He got his hand on his knife and yanked it from its sheath. John appeared behind Dougal, got one strong arm around his throat and hauled him back. Dougal thrashed, yelling, swearing, lashing out at Jamie and John. 

Miraculously, Grey kept his grip on him. Jamie drove his knife up into Dougal’s belly. He twisted the blade, dragged it. Blood poured over his hand, hot and thick. It rained on him in a ghastly torrent. The stench of copper and sweat and urine filled the cabin. 

Dougal’s eyes went wide. Shock, horror. Jamie drew his blade out of him, and stabbed him again.

Then the light went out of Dougal’s wide eyes. 

John dropped his body to the planks. Grey’s face was ghastly pale, and he sat down hard on the deck. “The children,” he said.

Jamie hauled himself to his feet, stepping over Dougal’s corpse, the bloody knife still in his hand. He cut the ropes binding the kids’ hands, then helped them get the makeshift gags out of their mouths. 

Brianna threw her arms around Jamie’s neck, crying, heedless of the blood. Jamie held her tight. “I have ye, _a chuisle_. It’s alright. Dinna fash.”

“Papa!” Willie cried and ran to John. 

_John_. “Come on,” Jamie said, pushing Bree away but holding her hand.

William clung to his father, who was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the labor of it. Jamie knelt at his side, taking his hand in his free one. Bree and Willie reached for each other, clasping hands again over Grey. 

“Jamie,” he said, his voice a groan. 

“I’m here. They’re safe now.” Jamie let go of his hand and pushed his shirt out of the way, carefully feeling for the bullet hole. “Tell me where the big kids hurt ye.”

John let out a weak laugh, groaning and hissing in pain. “Right side. Smart ass.”

Jamie found the wound. “Christ, ye’re a damn fortunate eedjit.” Dougal’s shot had taken a chunk of flesh and muscle from John’s hip, but Jamie couldn’t see anything that looked like vital organs. 

Reclaiming his hand from Brianna, Jamie untucked his shirt and tore off a wide strip from the bottom of it. Exhaustion was setting in and Jamie’s hands were shaking. He barely had enough strength left to rip his shirt. But he managed and wadded it up over the wound. “Willie, hold this. Press hard, ken.” The boy did as he was told. 

Bending down, Jamie pressed his lips to John’s, closed-mouthed and sweet. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it in front of the children. Maybe Grey wouldn’t want William to know. Bree knew about her mothers, was no stranger to love between members of the same sex. The bairns would be alright. “I forbid ye to die while I’m calling for help,” Jamie said, pulling away.

John smiled up at Jamie, a weak expression. “I’ll do my best.”

The radio was tucked into the bulkhead by the stairs. Thank Christ there was a radio band chart next to it, and Jamie turned to the emergency frequency. “Mayday, mayday, mayday…”


	20. Chapter 20

Jamie Fraser did not tolerate boats well. By some miracle, he’d made it from the dock to Dougal’s boat, all through the fight, and even managed to call for help without getting more than a little queasy. 

The Coast Guard weren’t far, and before long had John loaded onto a stretcher and transferred to their boat. Rupert came to, disoriented and sore, but alive, and they carried him aboard as well. The children were given a once-over and blankets. Jamie waved off medical attention, making sure the kids were settled where Willie could see John between the corpsmen applying first aid. 

As the Coast Guard took them away from the _White Rose of Scotland_ and their borrowed craft, Jamie lost it. Without the imminent threat of certain death, the seasickness hit him, plowing hard into him. He didn’t make it to the railing, barely managed to avoid throwing up on the children. 

A corpsman ran to check on him. “Whoa, you alright there, pal?”

Jamie tried to wave him off, absolute misery twisting his guts. “I’m fine.”

“You might have a concussion,” the corpsman said, forcing Jamie’s eyes open with his thumbs.

“I probably do,” Jamie said, trying to pull away from the persistent wee man. “But that’s no’ why—” 

He tried to turn away. He really did. But he was so tired and so ill and that corpsman was stronger than he looked. Jamie retched. Fortunately, it was mostly just bile, but it still landed directly on the man’s jacket. At least it missed his face. 

Jamie growned. “I’m sorry. I hate boats.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I see that.” The corpsman stood up and backed away. “Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

Two ambulances and several police cars were waiting at the dock. Jamie held Brianna in one arm and while one of the Coast Guard men carried William off the boat. Snatched directly from their beds, the poor children wore only socks. The medics started to load Grey into one of the ambulances, but John threw a fit until a policeman jogged over to him. 

“That man—” John pointed at Jamie— “drives my car to the hospital with my son. You phone my brother and tell him where I am. Then you go to my house, personally, and bring my mother to get William.”

“Grey, we know there’s bodies out there—”

John weakly closed his fist around the cop’s sleeve. _“Harry._ Don't arrest us until you have evidence. _Please._ Just… call my brother.”

* * *

The sound of snoring woke Grey. _Woke_ was a rather strong word; more accurately, the sound of snoring prompted Grey to pry his eyelids open and blink through the hazy morphine fog to identify the source. 

The first thing he noticed was that he was in a hospital and the sour-sterile smell of disinfectant burnt through his nose and assaulted his queasy stomach. When the room stopped spinning—or at least, slowed down—Grey followed the gentle rumble to find its source. The large form of Jamie Fraser, in the same clothes he’d been in since this whole mess started but now sporting fresh bruises and bandages, was on the floor. Fraser was more or less propped against the wall between Grey’s bed and the next one, his chin against his chest in what looked to be a terribly uncomfortable angle. He took up the space like a sentinel. If anyone came near Grey’s bed, Fraser would be the first to know about it. 

Their first meeting—and their second, and their fourth—had been contentious and rather ugly, mostly owing to a string of unfair assumptions on both of their parts. In Grey’s defense, most gangsters _were_ entirely comfortable killing police and committing various and sundry acts of aggression and larceny against the people of Chicago. And in Jamie’s defense, he didn’t have a lot of choices in a lot of things, and men like him and men like Grey were doomed to be enemies.

Except Fraser was nothing like Grey had expected. Every layer that the past two weeks had peeled back revealed another, more interesting and beautiful than the last. The morphine delirium brought to mind the noble artichoke with it’s sharp petals that get softer and less thorny the more you peel away the tough bits. Until, of course, you arrived at the fibrous, murderous defense protecting the heart. But once you pried off the aptly named _choke_ —no simple feat with the fuzzy tendrils sticking to everything—you find the tender prize underneath it all.

Grey’s stomach rumbled. Had he eaten in the last twenty-four hours? “Dear God in heaven,” he slurred, flopping back into his pillow and rubbing his eyes. How much morphine had they given him?

Another noise drew Grey’s attention, a small, sleepy murmur. He opened his eyes again and found two chairs close to the bed, one holding Willie and the other Brianna. Both of them were curled up rather like kittens in their chairs, sound asleep. 

Willie stirred and rubbed his eyes, sitting upright. “Papa?”

Grey’s heart melted and he smiled. Relief that his son was safe, joy that he was here, love for him, all the warm emotions rolled around in the sticky sweet morphine puddle in his brain. “Willie,” he whispered and held out a hand. 

His son slid off the chair and came to his side, wrapping his small arms around Grey’s neck. Willie rested his cheek on his shoulder and John pressed his lips to the top of his son’s head. 

Grey closed his eyes and breathed him in, the little boy scent and grime. It finally occurred to him that Willie was still dressed in his pajamas, but had shoes now at least. Brianna was in a similar state, wearing what appeared to be Willie’s slippers. “Is your grandmama here?”

Willie nodded and pulled away, grabbing onto John’s hand. “Yes. Mr. Quarry brought her, like you said. She’s in the waiting room. The nurses didn’t want the three of us in here, but Mr. Fraser yelled and said that if they wanted to move him that they were welcome to try. No one wanted to try.” Willie lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s very kind to me, but he’s very scary.”

Grey laughed and nodded. “He’s kind to me too.”

“I ken ye’re talking about me like I’m no’ here.” Jamie opened one eye, cast a mischievous—if tired—smirk up at Grey, and then groaned. He sat up straight and winced. “Christ, my back. Only a fool would fall asleep on a hard floor like that.”

“Oh, that’s the defining characteristic, is it?” Grey asked. “Not everything else you’ve pulled off in the last twenty-four hours?” 

Jamie rolled his eyes and hauled himself to his feet, groaning and popping all the way up. “I’m too old for this.” He made enough commotion that Brianna woke up too, rubbing her eyes with both fists and yawning.

“They say you’re only as old as you feel.”

“In that case, I’m eighty.” Jamie stretched and his spine cracked loudly. He sighed with relief as Brianna climbed out of her chair and put her arms around Jamie’s waist.

Later, Grey could blame the morphine for what came out of his mouth next. “Well then, you look damn good for your age.”

For a long time no one spoke. Grey and Jamie locked eyes and something frightening and wonderful settled into the space between them while their children gawked at them.

“Willie,” Grey said at last, breaking the spell. “Why don’t you go find your grandmama. You can tell her I’m awake.”

Willie hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Papa.”

“Bree, ye go wi’ him,” Fraser said, and Brianna nodded. “Stay together and do as Mrs. Grey says, aye?” 

The children left together, sticking close to each other. When they were gone, Jamie moved one of the chairs closer to Grey’s bedside and sat down. “I reckon we should talk about this…" He made a rather helpless gesture, fumbling for the right words.

"Whatever it is between us," Grey finished.

Jamie nodded and gave an affirmative grunt. "And what happens next. I did imply to Capone that I would kill ye."

Grey swallowed hard. "And is that what you mean to do? Smother me perhaps? Pump me full of more morphine until I slip away?" He didn't actually think Jamie would kill him. 

"Would be faster to just shoot ye," Jamie said, sitting back in the chair and affecting an air of casual contemplation. "If I did it through a pillow, it wouldnae be messy. And I could be halfway to Canada before anyone realized it was me."

Well that certainly painted a vivid picture. "I…" Grey blinked. "Yes, I suppose that would be faster. Will you?"

"Weel, the way I see it," Jamie began, his fingers rasping over his stubbled jaw. "Ye helped bring down Dougal. And ye saved my life—"

"Twice," Grey interjected. 

"Dinnae get ahead of yerself." Jamie spoke sternly but he had that light in his eyes that softened the blow. "And ye helped me save my daughter. _And_ ye testified against Randall and saved me from the electric chair."

"Anyone would have done the same—"

"No. No, they wouldnae." Jamie drew in a deep breath and blew it out in a sigh. "I ken that any minute now, Chicago's finest are going to March through that door, put me in handcuffs, lock me up, and throw away the key. I'll be charged with grand theft, three counts of breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon…" he paused and counted on his fingers. It took both hands. "Roughly half a dozen counts of murder—in the second degree, if I am verra fortunate, and I doubt it. And that only covers the last thirty-six hours. They'll probably throw in racketeering, bootlegging, and tax evasion while they're at it, just for good measure."

"Jamie…" Grey didn't know what else to say. He was probably right. He _was_ right. He wanted to say he would protect him, that Grey wouldn't let that happen. But they both knew his word at the Chicago Police Department meant precious little.

Fraser's eyes were wet, his face stricken with grief. His voice broke when he spoke next. "I'll never see my daughter again. And I can bear it, because I ken she's alive. But I cannae bear for her to see the trial, to be here wi'out any kin to love her when they put me on death row. My godfather…" The tears began to fall, but Jamie ignored them, soldiering on. Grey's heart broke for him. "My godfather was killed yesterday, and with her mothers gone… I have family in Scotland, a sister. She's outside Inverness. Janet Murray. And her husband Ian. They'll… can ye see that Bree gets to them? I ken it's too much to ask, but… there's no' a soul left I can trust on this side of the Atlantic."

"Of course," Grey said immediately. There was no question, no doubt. He reached across the space between them to clasp Jamie's hand, his own eyes watery and his cheeks wet. "Of course I will, Jamie. I'll see to it, you have my word." John's heart was pounding. Jamie's hand, warm in his, felt like it was exactly where it needed to be. 

But Jamie was right, and it didn't actually matter what was between them. Because it would never happen. It was impossible. It would hurt worse to try to start something just to let it go. They were worlds apart, and they would always be worlds apart. It didn't matter that Grey was an outcast cop or that Fraser was an outcast gangster. No matter what either of them did or said… this was it. A few combined hours of heartbreaking, beguiling tenderness.

Jamie squeezed Grey's hand in a grip so tight it would have hurt if it weren't for the morphine. "Thank you."

For a long time they just stared at each other. Perhaps there was something that could be done… but there was a mountain of crimes and evidence. Dougal MacKenzie, it seemed, had set everything up to lead back to Jamie.

"I'm so sorry," Grey said at last, "that it's come to this."

Jamie nodded, the muscles of his jaw twitching. "Aye, me too. But it's my own doing."

The sound of a man clearing his throat made John snatched his hand back. A doctor came through the doorway, a man with dark skin and a coat with the name Dr. Abernathy embroidered on it. He gave Grey a friendly smile. "Good to see you awake, Officer Grey. I'm Dr. Abernathy. I had the pleasure of taking the bullet out of your hip this morning." He looked at Jamie then and the smile broadened. "Hi there, Jamie. I see you finally let a nurse look at you."

Jamie surreptitiously swiped at his face, straightening up in his chair. "Aye, I did. Good to see ye, Joe." He tilted his chin at Grey. "Did ye remove the stick from his arse while ye were there?" Jamie winked at John. Well, he tried to. He was terrible at winking and ended up sort of… blinking off center.

Grey couldn't help but let out a fond chuckle. 

_Fond? When had that happened?_

"I'm sorry, did you call him Joe?" Grey asked. "You're on a first name basis with my surgeon?"

"Oh, Jamie and I go way back," Dr. Abernathy explained. 

"He and Claire were verra good friends," Jamie added. "He's patched me up a time or two on the sly."

"Never met a more injury-prone fellow." Dr. Abernathy turned his attention back to Grey and came closer to the bed. "Let's take a look at those dressings, shall we?"

Grey nodded, flipped the blanket back, and pulled up his hospital gown. What he could see of his hip and leg was horrifically bruised. The bandage bore a few small dots of brownish blood, hours-old and long-dried. Dr. Abernathy made a humming noise that sounded rather pleased, and gingerly peeled the dressing away to reveal a small mass of black stitches holding together bright pink, puckered flesh. 

“Not bad, not bad,” the doctor said, carefully replacing the bandage and tucking Grey back in. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Grey.”

“How do you mean?” John asked. Getting shot didn’t feel like a lucky break, that was for sure. 

“Well, you were shot in the hip,” Dr. Abernathy explained. “Which, depending on the angle, very often results in broken bones. You, Mr. Grey, suffered a stable fracture of the pelvis. A couple of months off your feet, then crutches, and you should be right as rain by the summer.”

Grey tried to process everything the doctor had said, only managing to catch some of it. He was thinking about how good and right Jamie’s hand had felt in his, about how loudly their hearts were breaking. Grey felt anything but _lucky._

The sound of cacophonous, intrusive footsteps of several self-important men echoed down the hallway and into the room. Grey felt each footfall in his chest like thunder. It was the purposeful strides of men on an errand, expecting resistance to their errand, and certain they would overcome it. Grey looked at Jamie, who sat stiffly in the chair, jaw tight, face blank. Eyes haunted. They were coming for him, and Jamie Fraser was steeling himself to pay the piper. 

"Morning, Johnny," Hal said, entirely too cheerful for anyone else in the room. "Got your message. How's the leg?" The sight of his brother might have been a welcome one if it weren't for the cadre of suits behind him. 

"Hal," John said by way of greeting. 

Dr. Abernathy snatched up the chart from the foot of Grey's bed, with a brief, "Pardon me, gentlemen." He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at John and cut his eyes toward the newcomers. 

Grey was sorely tempted to let Dr. Abernathy make some excuse to toss them all out, but that would just make everything worse for everyone, including Dr. Abernathy. He shook his head. 

Hal approached Jamie, who stood from his chair, easily a head taller than everyone else in the room. Hal didn't flinch, keeping his calm, businesslike neutral expression plastered on his face. "You must be Mr. Fraser," Hal said.

Jamie nodded. "I am."

Hal dug into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and the other men did likewise, displaying federal badges. "I am Supervisory Special Agent Harold Grey; these men are my associates. We're with the Bureau of Investigations. Does this man require additional medical attention?" He addressed the question to Dr. Abernathy.

For a moment, the doctor looked like was prepared to lie. But after exchanging a strained look with Jamie, shook his head. "No, sir. He's fit."

Hal nodded. "Mr. Fraser, I'm placing you under arrest for the unlawful sale and distribution of liquor, grand theft, and on suspicion of homicide." He opened up a pair of handcuffs, locking them around Jamie's obediently offered wrists with a ratcheting sound that ripped John's heart in two.

"Do you want me to call someone for Bree?" Dr. Abernathy asked.

Jamie looked at Grey, his eyes trusting and broken and frightened, but resigned. "Thank ye, Joe. Arrangements are made for her to go to my sister in Scotland. I would be grateful to ye for whatever help wi' that ye could offer."

Dr. Abernathy nodded, kind face grim. "Of course, friend." 

"May I say goodbye to my daughter on the way out?" Jamie asked. His voice was steady, though Grey could hear the note of pleading in the question. 

No one else would have noticed Hal's shoulders slump, just a fraction of an inch. He was a father, a damn good one, and Jamie's question had pulled at his heartstrings. "Of course. Ness, will you escort Mr. Fraser to the car, please?"

A young man with well-pomaded, dark hair nodded. "Yes, sir. Come with me, please, Mr. Fraser." 

Ness and the other suit led Jamie out of the room. Jamie didn't look back at Grey, which was just as well. If he had, Grey wouldn't have been able to keep his heart from shattering where everyone could hear.

Dr. Abernathy replaced Grey's chart, breaking the silence. "I'll be back later to check on you. Call for a nurse if you need anything in the meantime, alright?"

"Thank you, Doctor," Grey said, offering as much of a smile as he could, which was very little.

The doctor nodded and left the room.

"He's not the bad guy," Grey said abruptly. 

"Johnny—" 

"He's not," Grey insisted. "I'm going to testify. It will be the one hundred percent truth and it will cost me my entire career, but I don't care."

Hal held out a placating hand. "Alright, there's no need to get worked up over this. You wanted the gangs out of Chicago, didn't you?"

"Yes, and I still do."

Brianna's voice echoed down the hallway from the waiting room, her frightened wail tearing into Grey's guts and ripping them out. He squeezed his eyes shut, the tears he'd been holding back breaking through the dam and rolling down his face. It felt like an hour that she screamed, begging for her da, pleading with the agents to let him go, to take her with them. Grey just laid there, helpless. 

At last, her shrieking quieted to hiccuping sobs that still bounced down the otherwise quiet hallway. Grey opened his eyes. Hal, to his credit, was not unaffected by the girl's outburst. He swallowed hard.

"Jamie Fraser is _not_ the gangs in Chicago," Grey said when he got himself under control again.

Hal sat down in the chair Jamie had vacated and pulled out a notepad and a pencil. "I'm listening."


	21. Chapter 21

As it turned out, Murdo the Spy was actually a rather excellent cop. He had years of evidence and observations, carefully written up, nice and neat and ready to go. It took over a week to get through his statements and testimony, all corroborating everything Jamie said. 

John Grey's testimony went much faster, limited to the scope of the night Dougal MacKenzie had died. Brianna and Willie gave statements in the days following Jamie's arrest. Grey's mother took the stand in his defense, resulting in several lost jobs at the police station for gross negligence. 

Grey himself was quietly sacked while he was on bedrest. Benedicta saw the new commissioner of police out of the house, then came back to Grey's bedside. She gave John's hand a sympathetic squeeze, then said, "What a fucking prick. Would you like some tea?"

No love lost there. At least Grey managed to avoid prison. 

Jamie spent a month giving Hal everything he asked for. Names, places, smuggling routes, suppliers, dealers. Patiently, carefully, he laid it all out, the entire MacKenzie operation. The feds rounded up men as Jamie gave them sufficiently damning evidence. Most of them had been coerced or trapped in the life by Dougal, just like Jamie had. Ned Gowan, Jamie's attorney, helped most of them negotiate plea deals and shorter sentences. Everything Dougal had built over the years, Jamie took down piece by piece.

After a long investigation and a grueling trial, the prosecutor needed a fall guy. So, while Ned Gowan was able to get plea deals and commuted sentences for many of the MacKenzies, they had to make an example of Jamie. Thanks to his endless cooperation—and due in no small part to Hal’s influence—he managed to avoid death row. 

* * *

The twenty-first of August was sweltering. The exercise yard at Cook County Jail was bathed in humidity so wretched that Jamie could see it in waves off the dirt. Ned had sent him a respectable suit to spare Jamie the shame of leaving in his prison uniform. It was decent and fit well—miraculously—but far from lavish. Simple, nondescript brown jacket and trousers, a modest tie, an ivory shirt, and new shoes. Most of Jamie’s belongings and property had been seized by the feds or used to pay his legal fees. Even with Ned’s family discount, it had been costly for everyone.

Someone on the yard shouted, but Jamie kept his eyes straight ahead or nodded politely to the guards with shotguns as they led him to the last gate and his freedom on the other side.

A black Ford was parked just outside the gate, shining in the blazing sun. John Grey leaned against the hood, a cane gripped in one hand. He was dressed in an impeccable blue suit, crisp and bright and a far cry from his navy uniform. A narrow-brimmed fedora perched on top of his head, the angle straight-laced and serious business. John’s smile was brighter than the oppressive sun.

It wasn’t as if Jamie hadn’t seen John since he was arrested. Once he was off bedrest and able to amble around on crutches, John had visited him as often as he could. He brought news and letters from Brianna, safely settled in Scotland. She was adjusting to life with her cousins and family—safe family—running amuck around the modest farm they called Lallybroch. His daughter had adjusted about as well as could be expected, though she missed her da terribly. A bundle of her letters and precious drawings was tucked in Jamie’s coat pocket, a stack so thick two guards stopped him to check the bulge in his jacket on the way out.

But to see John like this, with no chains around his wrists and ankles, no dour guards with shotguns and pistols at the ready, out here in the open air… Jamie might have dropped to his knees and thanked God if he wasn’t still fairly certain there were shotguns ready to be pointed at him. Instead, he grinned back at John so wide it hurt his cheeks. 

“Welcome back to the world, Jamie Fraser,” Grey said, pushing himself up with his cane and holding out his right hand to him.

Instead of a perfectly normal handshake, Jamie put his arms around John and hugged him. He’d thought of little else since his arrest beyond Bree, the loved ones he’d lost, and John. Seeing John again on the outside, touching him, finishing that conversation they never got to have in the hospital. Kissing him, perhaps… but that would have to wait.

Jamie’s grin evolved into a laugh of pure joy, right into John’s ear. John laughed too, embracing him with his one free hand. When Jamie pulled back, lest the hug start to look _too_ friendly, he just stared stupidly at John’s beautiful, pale eyes. He should say something. Something profound maybe, or lovely and poetic. A limerick. Anything. But all Jamie could bring to mind was, “I’m so happy ye’re here for this.”

John’s hand was solid and real and wonderful on Jamie’s arm. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Are you ready to go?”

“Aye.” They got into the car without casting a glance at the imposing hulk of the prison. John drove them, guiding the big car through the checkpoint and into civilization. Jamie held his breath the entire way. When they were far enough away that Jamie couldn’t see the walls of Cook County anymore, he blew it out. “Hip is faring well, I see.” It was stupid small talk, and Jamie swallowed down the awkwardness. The last time they were alone together was for a few moments in the hospital. Before that, it had been this very automobile, threatening their way through the Chicago underground to find their children. What sort of thing were two men meant to talk about in this situation?

“It is,” John answered. “I can’t run yet and I have to stop and rest more frequently than I’d like, but it’s fit. It kindly warns me before it rains, so that’s convenient.” Jamie cast a glance at John then, who wore a contented expression, as if he might curl up for a pleasant afternoon doze or burst out laughing at any moment.

A warmth rose up in Jamie’s chest, something distantly familiar but not at all forgotten. He just stared at Grey, watched him drive, unable to wipe the stupid smile off his face. 

The wind through the windows was still hot and thick, but at least it was moving, so a vast improvement all around. They spoke of their families, mostly John filling Jamie in on what he’d missed. John’s mother, whom Jamie had seen only briefly as he’d kissed his daughter goodbye at the hospital, had taken William on a long holiday to visit family. A new letter from Bree had come for Jamie, and John pulled this from his pocket and passed it to him. She still told Claire and Annalise that she loved them every morning and every night. She liked to sit in the shadow of the big stone tower at Lallybroch when the sun was high and talk to Papa Murtagh now.

_They never talk back of course,_ Brianna’s letter read. Her handwriting had grown into something tidy and mature. _But I don’t think our guardian angels need to talk to us with words, do you? I miss them as much as I miss you, Da. But I can feel how much they love me everyday, so I’m never alone. I hope you don’t feel alone. If you do, you should ask Papa Murtagh to keep you company._

Jamie finished reading the letter, then folded it up and added it to the stack in his pocket. He looked at John again, staring straight out of the windshield silently, giving Jamie space and privacy to read it. Jamie _had_ felt alone, surrounded by people day in and day out, isolated from the precious few people he had left that he cared about. But here in this car, next to Grey… it felt right. Well, almost. 

John drove them to his house and parked in the gravel driveway. Jamie's home had been sold with Ned's help, and Grey had held onto the few small crates of his things that he'd managed to save. Jamie had never seen Grey’s house before, of course. It was modest but comfortable in a good neighborhood. The kind of place where a lot of firemen and accountants lived. 

John switched off the engine. “Won’t you come in?” He opened the door and started to climb out, but Jamie stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“In a minute.” Jamie suddenly found himself unaccountably nervous. He would explode if he went one more second holding this in, but the thought of doing it inside Grey’s home was absolutely terrifying. He had been in this car before. They’d shared things here. The black Ford knew some of the secrets already. The walls of that house didn’t. “I need…” Jamie trailed off, taking and releasing three or four breaths before he could find any words at all. “Before ye let me into yer home, I think we need to get some things straight.”

Nodding slowly, Grey settled back into his seat and closed the car door again. “Alright.” 

“I dinnae… I dinnae ken precisely what to say or how to say it to ye.” _Great start, Fraser._ “I’m widowed, ye ken that. And I ken ye are too. And on a couple of occasions, we, um…” Jamie made some vague, helpless gesture in the air between them, suddenly unable to force the words through his tight throat.

“Kissed?” John said.

“Aye, that.” Ice broken, Jamie barrelled on, unable now to stop or slow down. “And I wanted ye, since that first time in my kitchen. And that night outside of Dougal’s warehouse. And I can understand if ye dinnae feel the same for me—”

“I do.”

“But it’s more than that now, I think,” Jamie went on. “Seeing who ye are, truly, seeing ye as a father, same as me. How brave ye are, how damned determined ye are to do the right thing. Ye never quit, not even when ye should have.” He was rambling now, but there was no help for it. “I’ve been dying to see what else there is to ye since that night. And I ken it’s mad and it doesnae make any sense. It’s just no’ logical, but then I suppose the heart wants what it wants.” _Dear God, man, pull it together_. “And I ken ye probably dinnae feel the same—”

“I do.”

“And that’s alright, I understand that.” At some point, Grey had taken Jamie’s hand and held it still. Jamie didn’t see it happen, just one moment he wasn’t and the next he was. The floodgates were open now. There were no two ways about it, this was all coming out right this second. “I loved Claire—I still do in some ways. I thought she was my one great love, ken. And I wasnae hers, but that’s alright. I grew to love Annalise too, as a very dear friend. But when I look at ye now, John… all I can think about is how very much ye feel like home to me, in a way I havenaet felt in a verra long time.”

“Me too.”

“But that’s madness, I ken that. I’ve been locked up for months. And ye’re a verra handsome man, John, I ken ye probably have someone—”

“I don’t—”

“And we’re from two completely different worlds. But what I’m trying to say—”

_“Jamie,”_ John said, nearly a shout. He dug his fingernails into Jamie’s hand until he closed his mouth. He laid his other hand on Jamie’s cheek, warm and tender. “Would you shut up?” Grey was smiling, chuckling even. “I’m trying to tell you that I love you too, you pain in the ass.”

Jamie froze, whatever inane thing he was about to prattle on with dying away. “Ye… ye do?”

Grey nodded. “Yes, you maniac. I don’t understand it, and you’re right, we come from different worlds. But I don’t give a single damn about that anymore. Do you?”

“Nay.” Jamie shook his head, on the verge of insane laughter. “I dinnae care. I’m no’ a gangster anymore anyway.”

“And I’m not a cop, am I? So we’re square.”

It was the middle of the afternoon and the street wasn’t exactly deserted, but Jamie didn’t care. He took John’s face in both of his hands and kissed him. Jamie’s heart pounded, thunder in his chest. John’s mouth on his made him dizzy, his tongue slipped between his lips and stole his breath. 

It _was_ home and it _was_ right. For a moment, Jamie’s heart stopped, expecting the rug to get yanked out from under them again. But it didn’t. There was no new peril. The children were safe. Jamie was actually free—from prison, from the cycle of crime he’d been trapped in, dependent on for so long. He was free from Dougal’s influence and his poison. And other than a few minor details, Jamie was free to see where this magical thing between him and John might go. 

John pulled away, his panting breaths ghosting over Jamie’s lips. “We should, um…” he blinked, eyes foggy. “Go inside. I have a kitchen—if you’re hungry, that is—and a bed. If you’re, um… not.”

“That bed sounds perfect. Lead the way?”

“Yeah? Yeah—yes. Yes, I can do that.” Grey shoved his door open again and scrambled out as quickly as his sore hip would allow him to move. Jamie followed, offering him a hand on the stairs, but John waved him off, leaning on his cane. He wobbled on the last step, and Jamie wrapped an arm around his middle to keep him upright. The absolute last thing they needed right now was _more_ injuries or mishaps.

Grey fumbled his key in the lock and pushed the door open, stepping aside for Jamie to go in first. “Make yourself at home,” he said.

That was all the invitation Jamie needed. “Aye then.” Bending, he scooped Grey up into his arms, one arm under John’s knees, the other around his chest.

John gasped and clung to him. “What in God’s name!”

“Wi’ yer luck, John Grey, ye’ll catch yer cane on the hall rug, fall flat on yer face, and die. And I willnae take that chance.” Jamie spun in a circle there in the foyer, looking for some clue as to the layout of the house. It was rather bare, he noticed. It only registered in the back of his mind, behind the impatient lust. “Now, about that bed?”

“That way, to the right.” John pointed down the nearest hallway. “But there’s absolutely no need—”

“Are ye going to argue wi’ me about everything?” It wasn’t a long hallway, and Jamie cleared it in a couple of long strides, catching sight of a sparsely furnished bedroom through an open door. It had a bed at least, and Jamie laid John gently on it.

“That was quite unnecessary,” Grey said, his lips curving downward in an honest-to-God pout.

“Ye’re welcome.” Jamie bent and captured John’s mouth, sucking that full lower lip until Grey groaned and clawed at Jamie’s clothes. He was already burning with want, a decadent fire, impossible to ignore, but pleasant. John rolled his hips up against him, begging, demanding. It threw gasoline on the cozy flame, and silly things like buttons and seams and neckties became meaningless obstacles. 

Oh, but that first brush of skin on gloriously bare skin was pure heaven. Jamie didn’t care that they were already sweating in the heat. A gentle breeze blew through an open window, fluttering the curtains. The sound of trees rustled along with it, just enough relief for the stuffy room. The wind tickled the fine hairs on the back of Jamie’s thighs. John’s mouth sucking and biting his shoulder made him shiver. 

Jamie tried to focus on everything, each little sensation, all the sighs and breaths falling from John’s lips. But there was so much and it was all perfect, that he missed whatever interesting little maneuver John did to get Jamie on his back. He might have just asked him nicely, for all Jamie knew. John _did_ ask him nicely what his preferred position was and Jamie only replied, “Whatever doesnae hurt yer hip. I dinna care, I just need ye.”

John’s hand was warm and wet with oil, sliding over Jamie’s cock, and everything was clear again. Grey straddled him, taking him in carefully and slow—so slow, maddeningly slow. The sound of their moaning and gasping faded into the background hum of wind and trees and puttering automobiles through the open window. John was everything, everywhere, the entire world. Every inch of him that Jamie could reach, he touched. He felt every scar, every tight muscle, every twitch of his body. All of it, his to feel and to worship.

“Kiss me,” Jamie begged, his thumb tracing the fading scar left by the knife wound he’d helped Grey bandage months ago. 

John bent forward on top of him and claimed Jamie’s mouth.

Jamie twisted his fingers in John’s hair, grown longer than it had been. It was a joy to chart all the changes in John’s body over the past months. There was so much Jamie hadn’t seen, and he could spend hours getting intimately acquainted with all of him. 

Everything with John was new and precious. Perhaps it was a silly thought and Jamie was a romantic fool. But then John broke off the kiss with a wet smack and stared down at Jamie with eyes wide with wonder. The look made a thousand butterflies go nuts in Jamie’s stomach. It was sweet and it was hungry, a million mad things John didn't give words to, but Jamie watched dance behind his eyes all the same. Jamie might be a romantic fool, sure, but so was John Grey, and that boded very well indeed.

Yes, _love_ was indeed the word for it. Surprising and wild. Jamie had thought never to feel this again, but here it was, staring down at him like he hung the moon.

Watching John lose himself and fall apart on top of him was a singular experience. Jamie ran his fingertips through the sheen of perspiration on John’s chest, his back, marveling at the strong muscles there. Whispered words of adoration between their gentle groans and the rhythmic creaking of the mattress springs.

“John, oh God—”

“Me too,” John gasped, leaning down and kissing him again. He groaned into Jamie’s mouth when he dragged his nails down John’s back. Absolute ecstasy rolled over Jamie, consumed them both and carried them away.

Panting and dripping sweat, Grey collapsed onto Jamie, resting his head on his chest. Jamie stroked his hair, letting his breath catch back up. The room smelled of sweat and sex, not at all unpleasnt as far as Jamie was concerned. His heart pounded in his chest and John’s answered, like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wing against Jamie’s rib cage.

Jamie drew John’s chin up so he could look him in the eyes. God, he could get lost in those eyes. They were the color of the sky after a storm has blown on, or late morning fog. “I love you, John. I dinnae ken why or how, but I do.”

John smiled. It started in his eyes, brightening them, then spread to his lips. “I love you too, Jamie. I can’t imagine my life without you anymore.”


	22. Chapter 22

“When the Western Union delivery boy ran into my office, just about the last person in the world I expected that telegram to be from was you.” The man shouted to be heard over the crowded train platform.

Jamie turned around, pulling his hands slowly out of the pockets of his trousers as he did so, an envelope clasped in one hand. He couldn’t help but smile at Eliot Ness, the fresh-faced federal agent who’d stayed behind in Chicago after Harold Grey had left town following the trial. “Good morning, Agent Ness. Fine day for a stroll, is it no’?”

Ness couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six, and if anyone rivaled John Grey’s obsession with doing the right thing, it was him. Jamie knew next to nothing about the man beyond his apparently infallible respect for the law. He’d spent weeks spilling his guts to him, laying out everything he needed to sever the MacKenzies’ chokehold on Chicago. And Ness had listened and asked questions—damn insightful questions. Jamie rather liked him, though God knew why.

“Have you got something for me, Mr. Fraser?” Ness had that muddled, first-generation American accent so common in big cities here, flavors of whatever language his parents spoke at home mixed with whatever vernacular he’d picked up from the kids at school.

Jamie nodded. “Aye, I do.” He straightened out the bent envelope and offered it to Agent Ness. “I thought of some things that I didnae tell ye before.”

Ness frowned down at the envelope, then back up at Jamie, squinting against the climbing sun maybe, or trying to work out some puzzle. _Peeling back the layers of Jamie Fraser_ , John called it. “What’s your angle, Fraser? Really. I know what you said on the record, and I know what it all cost you. But the one thing I know about you that you never explicitly told me is that your family is the most important thing to you. And you spent a month betraying all of them, and you felt wretched for it. I know you did; I watched you die a little inside every time we arrested someone.” 

Jamie nodded. “Aye, I did. All my life I lived under my uncle’s thumb, and so did the rest of them.”

“But he was already dead, what did it matter?”

“They would have murdered each other,” Jamie answered. “Or been slaughtered by the Outfit. I’d much rather have my kin penniless and alive but free from Dougal’s influence than dead. Bootlegging’s no’ a kind business, Agent Ness. There’s widows and orphans enough in the MacKenzie clan as it is.”

Ness tapped the envelope against his other hand in front of him. “What’s in here, Fraser?”

“No’ but a wee bit of information to help ye find yer next big fish.” The train whistle blew and the crowded platform turned frantic. They were suddenly surrounded by hasty embraces, tearful kisses goodbye, and then passengers scooping up their smaller pieces of luggage and rushing aboard. 

Jamie tipped the brim of his hat and smiled. “Goodbye, Agent.” He turned away then, and strolled to the train. The uniformed conductor punched his ticket and waved him aboard to find his seat.

John was already on the train, heart-stoppingly handsome in his gray suit, hat balanced on one knee. He looked up from his newspaper when Jamie sat down next to him. “Everything alright?”

“Aye, just… tying up some loose ends. Are ye finished wi’ that page?” Jamie gestured to the international news section, refolded into an absolute mess. John Grey was hell on newspapers.

“Sure.” John handed over the rumpled pages. A distant sort of darkness crossed his features, then replaced immediately by barely-suppressed mischief. “Are you finally going to kill me then? Is that the real reason you wanted to travel with me, so you can keep your promise to Capone?”

Jamie leaned in close—but not too close, they were on a crowded train for Christ’s sake—and said in a hushed voice, “One of these days, I’m going to kiss that cocky smirk right off yer face.”

“Promise?” John asked, eyes bright and excited as a schoolboy. 

“Count on it.” Jamie straightened back up in his seat and shook his head. “Nay, that’s one man I dinnae feel bad about double-crossing. But we dinnae ken how far of a reach our Italian friend has.” He shrugged. “I merely covered our tracks a bit. Christ, John, how do ye manage to do this to a perfectly good newspaper?” Jamie awkwardly reordered the pages—there were only a few of them—and shook them back into place. It made a damnable racket, and a woman on the other side of the aisle gave him a curious look. Finally, he got it put back to rights and settled back against the seat to read.

The train lurched and chugged forward, slowly easing its way out of the station. John leaned his head back against the headrest and sighed. “Do you know, I haven’t been back to the U.K. in… Oh, twenty years.”

Jamie gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “Ten for me. Do they no’ teach the metric system in American schools?”

John furrowed his brow, confused. “Of course they do. Why?”

Jamie shrugged, grinned, and said nothing.

“Bloody hell, Fraser, I don’t care what you say, it’s a long walk from ‘Fortnight’ to ‘two weeks’ to ‘two meters’ to ‘six-foot-four.’ Alright? That’s a four-step nickname. What gangster has a four-step nickname? It doesn’t make a lick of sense, and you know it!” John’s voice rose carelessly. He realized he’d drawn the attention of the nearest passengers and his face turned beet red.

_“Former_ gangster, John,” Jamie hissed at him. “Come now, ye’re frightening the ladies.”

“My apologies,” John muttered, only a little contrite. “You’re insufferable.”

“Aye,” Jamie agreed without looking up from the paper.

“God, I can’t wait to see Willie again. He’s been in Aberdeen with my mother for months. But at least he’s been safe there.” As soon as their part in the investigation and trial were over, Benedicta Grey and William had gone to stay with family in Aberdeen. 

With the threat of Capone’s wrath hanging over Grey, and John bedridden and unable to protect them, it had been the prudent choice. She had kindly taken Brianna along and delivered her safely to her family outside of Inverness. Bree and Willie had stayed in touch, sending each other letters every week. Hal had stayed with John until just before Jamie was released, leaving periodically to visit his own wife and children for a few days at a time. The Greys were a close-knit family and tough as nails, every one of them. Jamie even had to admit that Hal wasn’t so terrible after getting past his crusty outer federal layer.

Jamie hummed in agreement. “Aye. It’s been a comfort that Bree’s wi’ family. But I miss her so much it hurts. Thank you, by the way. For sending her things to her.”

“You’re welcome,” John said, smiling. “For the fifth time.” 

As soon as he’d been able to, John had packed up Brianna’s collection of treasures and shipped them to Scotland. The photographs of Claire and Annalise, her rosary, her favorite blanket, Murtagh’s pocket watch that she’d squirreled away after he died, a wooden snake that had been a gift from Jamie’s late brother, and a few other things to help her feel more at home and connected to all three of her parents.

“Not long now, in the grand scheme of things,” Jamie said. “And we’ll have our bairns again.” Just the train to New York, the boat to Glasgow where they’d go their separate ways—John to Aberdeen to collect Willie, then on to London—another train north for Jamie, and finally a cab ride to Lallybroch. They were both so close to their new lives.

* * *

Jamie Fraser hated boats. He despised them. It made no difference how big it was—hulking cruise liners or wee canoes. They could be steam-powered, petrol, wind-propelled, rowed, or punted. It didn’t matter. He loathed them all. They could be on the ocean, a river, a lake, a car park puddle, it made absolutely no difference. He puked his guts out every single time. The only cure, apparently, was extreme stress, rage, and the determination to hold it together long enough to kill his uncle.

This wasn’t precisely a viable option on the crossing from New York to Glasgow, and so he vomited until he thought he’d die. John held onto him, watched over him. He found Jamie peppermint sweets that just made his nose burn coming back up and candied ginger that bought him about twenty minutes of relief at a time. 

It was late when they arrived in Glasgow. John helped Jamie off the wretched contraption and had their luggage sent to a nearby inn. Whatever demon that bedeviled Jamie at sea left him alone within hours of being back on solid land. He managed a light, cautious supper, sipping carefully at his first legal bottle of wine in nine years, shared with John. One last, incredible night together, and Jamie was determined to enjoy it to its fullest. 

They didn’t really sleep. Jamie kissed John goodbye in the morning before they left the room. They tumbled into bed just one more time because _I’m not really hungry yet anyway._

* * *

Jamie hadn’t given much thought to what coming back to Lallybroch would feel like. Would it still feel like home? Or would something have changed to make him a stranger to it? 

As the cab took him up the sloping drive and the stones of the tower came into view, Jamie was struck dumb at first. It was a building out of another time, like so much here that had survived into the twentieth century. In America, nothing was old, not really. In some parts of New England, sure, one could find buildings almost two hundred years old, but everything around those buildings looked like they all belonged there. There was scenery, architecture to ease you into it. Lallybroch was surrounded on all sides by open farmland, only Ian’s old farm truck parked in the dooryard gave it away as existing in the here and now.

The sum total of Jamie’s belongings in Chicago fit in two suitcases. He and the cab driver unloaded these. He paid his fare, and the car was nearly out of sight when the front door opened. 

Brianna’s face lit up like the Fourth of July and she bounded down the stone steps, charging into his waiting arms. “Da!” she shrieked.

Jamie couldn’t speak. He tried to say her name but it came out as some pitiful, incomprehensible squeak. Scooping her up in his arms—she’d grown, dear God, how she’d grown!—he crushed her to him. They both wept, her narrow shoulders shaking with sobs or with laughter or both. 

It suddenly didn’t matter where they were, what continent they were on, whether Lallybroch was home or not—and it was still. All that mattered was that they were together and they were safe. Their old lives, marred always by fear and sadness and frustration, were a million miles away. They could start fresh. Make for themselves the life that Jamie had always wanted to give his family. No more kingdoms to die for.

At last they pulled away from each other, Jamie setting Brianna back on the ground and studying her. “Christ, lass, ye’ve grown at least two feet since I last saw ye.”

Brianna laughed and shook her head. “No I haven’t! You’ve gotten shorter.”

Jamie laughed then, his wet cheeks straining to contain the joy. “Aye, that’s as maybe.”

She grabbed his hand and started dragging him to the door. “Come inside and see Auntie Jenny! She said you were coming tomorrow, but I prayed for you to make it today and you _did!_ I have cousins too, you haven’t met all of them yet.”

“Slow down, it’s alright,” Jamie said, putting up a little resistance. He wasn’t quite ready to give up his solitude with Bree, and any minute now, his sister would lose her death grip on the curious children and they’d flood the yard.

Brianna frowned at the empty space behind Jamie, occupied only by his suitcases. “Did you see Willie? How is Mr. John? Willie’s letter said he walks with a cane now.” A shadow crossed her eyes, and she swallowed hard. The ghosts of that awful night haunted her too.

Jamie lowered himself to one knee and gave her arms a gentle squeeze. “Aye, Mr. John does walk with a cane now, but not too much longer. Everyone is safe. It’s not ever going to happen again.”

Brianna mulled that over, then nodded. “Are they happy?”

“Weel, I dinnae ken,” Jamie said. “But ye can ask them yerself, end of next week. When we meet up wi’ them in London.” 

It took a moment for that to set in, then Brianna beamed and threw her arms around Jamie’s neck again.

Most children were very fortunate to have two parents; Brianna had been blessed with three. And perhaps, a world away from everything she’d ever known, she was well on her way to acquiring a fourth.

The End.


	23. Notes and Bibliography

**Acknowledgements**

My sincere thanks to FaerieChild, who innocently told me about a program she watched about nicknames in the Highlands, giving me the names for both Fortnight Fraser and Murdo the Spy. This dear friend then proceeded to patiently let me ramble like a fool for the next four months. _Tapadh leat, a charaid._

Special thanks as well to iihappydaysii, who kindly served as a sensitivity reader for a few crucial chapters and helped me avoid inadvertently burying my gays. I have attempted to be as respectful and thoughtful as possible; any deficiencies or oversights in that department are entirely mine and unintentional.

For my friends and Tumblr mutuals who put up with random squealing, rambling, spoiler-ing, flailing, and obnoxious cryptic teasing: thank you for your encouragement. I am very fortunate to have friends like you.

**Notes and Annotated Bibliography**

_There are lots of clickable links throughout the notes below. Have fun!_

**Title Banner:**

The title banner, appearing in Chapter 1, is composed almost entirely of vintage photographs from the 1920s and very early 1930s, with the exception of the car in the middle. That is a roadster, circa 1926, but the photograph is contemporary.

**Chapter 1:**

[Michigan Ave Bridge](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DuSable_Bridge) in Chicago is now called the DuSable bridge. 

**Chapter 3:**

The word “cop,” meaning police officer, came from “copper,” common slang in the 1920s. “Copper” referred to the copper badge numbers hammered onto a police officer’s badge. In the 1920s (except for a few ranks), Chicago police badges were large, six-pointed stars. They were nicknamed “pie plates” because they were so big. From [1907 to 1955](https://www.chicagocop.com/badges/1905-series-chicago-police-star-design/), patrolmen (like Grey) would have worn badges that look like this: 

**Chapter 4:**

In Illinois, the [State’s Attorney](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cook_County_State%27s_Attorney#List_of_Cook_County_State's_Attorneys) serves a similar function to a District Attorney in other states. In 1929, the Cook County State’s Attorney was John A Swanson.

**Chapter 5:**

There is a reason that Chicago is so often the setting for media with organized crime and/or a corrupt government. [Here is a timeline](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_organized_crime_in_Chicago#1920s) of organized crime in Chicago.

William F. Russell was the Commissioner of Police in 1929 under [Chicago Mayor William H. Thompson](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Hale_Thompson), widely regarded as one of the most unethical mayors in American history: 

_Author’s Note:_ For this story, William is John and Isobel’s biological son and not related to Jamie at all.

**Chapter 7:**

[Al Capone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al_Capone) was one of the most notorious gangsters of all time. He was born and raised in New York, and later moved to Chicago, where he became the boss of the Chicago Outfit. The Chicago Outfit is (yes, _is_ ) regarded as the largest and most powerful criminal organization in Chicago history. Since the late twentieth century, the size and scope of the Outfit has generally declined (law enforcement and attrition). It’s still there though, with an estimated 28—or so—core members (according to [this Wiki article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicago_Outfit), so who really knows).

**Chapter 8:**

Adjusting for inflation, $3 in 1929 would be equal to about $46 in 2021 (or roughly €38 as of 19 March 2021). Suffice it to say, Murtagh and Brianna probably should have played for candy.

**Chapter 9:**

Jamie refers to the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution, part of the U. S. Constitution referred to as the Bill of Rights. When someone “pleads the fifth,” they are referring to this line: “nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself,” which protects people from incriminating themselves. This Amendment can be read in full [here](https://constitution.congress.gov/constitution/amendment-5/).

**Chapter 10:**

Band-Aids were invented in 1921 by a [Johnson & Johnson employee](https://ourstory.jnj.com/first-band-aid-brand-adhesive-bandage) who had an accident-prone wife (#RelatableAF). They originally came in a roll that you cut your bandage from, like this:

**Chapter 11:**

John’s brother Hal is an agent for the BOI, or Bureau of Investigations, which was renamed the [Federal Bureau of Investigations](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federal_Bureau_of_Investigation) (FBI) in 1935. The FBI falls under the Department of Justice (DoJ), or the Justice Department (as it was commonly known at the time). References to “the feds” often indicate the FBI specifically, but can be any federal law enforcement body (including certain parts of the Internal Revenue Service [IRS], U.S. Marshalls, or the Secret Service).

**Chapter 12:**

The Chicago Police did not have radios installed in their squad cars until 1930, and they didn’t get two-way radios until 1939. The only way a motorcycle patrolman could have called for backup would have been using one of the [emergency boxes](https://www.chipublib.org/blogs/post/technology-that-changed-chicago-calling-911-1900-1970/) installed in the street. These boxes included a fire alarm (which worked flawlessly and alerted the fire station immediately that the alarm had been activated) and a phone that direct-dialed the police station. Dispatching officers was a challenge without radios in patrol cars, however once radios were installed in squad cars, response time was usually within about five minutes. The emergency boxes looked like this:

Union Park was opened in 1853; in 1917, the West Chicago Park Commission distributed flyers welcoming [all members of the community](https://www.chicagoparkdistrict.com/about-us/history-chicagos-park) to the park. By the early 1920s, about 40% of Union Park’s patrons were African American.

On a pair of police handcuffs, the strand is the piece with teeth; the pawl is the thing that grabs them and locks under tension. The strand going into the pawl is what makes that ratcheting, clicking sound. [Source.](https://tacticalgear.com/experts/how-to-use-police-handcuffs)

[Capone really did tell people he was a used furniture dealer.](https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/miami-al-capone/)

**Chapter 13:**

Jamie would have had a phone kind of like this: 

**Chapter 14:**

Prohibition was a supremely dangerous time to be a cop in Chicago. Between 1920-1939, [more than 40% of Chicago police officers](https://home.chicagopolice.org/about/history/) were killed in the line of duty.

The phone number for Chicago police (911 was not a thing yet) was POL(ice) 1313. [Source.](https://www.chipublib.org/blogs/post/technology-that-changed-chicago-calling-911-1900-1970/)

**Chapter 18:**

A [fender on a boat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fender_\(boating\)) is the rubber bumper thing that keeps the boat from smashing into stuff and tearing up the hull (or the thing it smashed into).

Newton’s third law of motion states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Which is why hopping from boat to boat without something holding them still in relation to each other results in an unintentional swim. To illustrate:

**Chapter 20:**

Onions, parfaits, and cakes are too obvious “layered things” metaphors for poor drugged-out John. People did eat artichokes in America in the 1920s. [Here’s a wiki page](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artichoke) about it that I should have been less surprised to find. And if you feel like eating a delicious thistle (yes, really), [here’s a simple recipe](https://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/how_to_cook_and_eat_an_artichoke/) for steamed artichoke, with instructions on how to eat the darn thing.

[X-Rays were first used in hospitals in 1896.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/X-ray)

Prohibition violations were originally under the jurisdiction of the Department of the Treasury. The National Prohibition Act of 1919 (the Volstead Act) actually fell under the Bureau of Internal Revenue (today called the Internal Revenue Service, or the IRS; most Americans associate the IRS with the government organization in charge of federal taxes). About ten years later (some sources said 1929, wiki said 1930, and then I decided it was close enough for fic), the BOI (precursor to the FBI) and therefore the Justice Department, assumed jurisdiction of Prohibition Act violations. The Volstead Act prohibited the production, sale, and transport of “intoxicating liquors” from 1920 through 1933 when it was repealed. In other words, you could drink what you already had at home, but you couldn’t make it, buy it, sell it, or move it. [Here’s more information on the Volstead Act.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Volstead_Act)

**Chapter 22:**

Eliot Ness was a Prohibition agent, born and raised in Chicago. In 1930, Ness (who was about 27 at the time) was officially assigned to lead a team of agents charged with bringing down Capone’s empire. He hand-picked each of his agents, all in their twenties, to ensure they were of the highest character, reliable, the best of the best. The Chicago Outfit aggressively attempted to intimidate and bribe them, but every attempt failed. Because of this, they were dubbed “untouchable.” [You can read more about Eliot Ness’s career here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eliot_Ness), including a list of popular media inspired by Ness and his team's work. Ever heard of _The Untouchables_? Yeah, that’s him.

**Vehicle Porn**

I spent entirely too much time drooling over really old cars and motorcycles for this. So I invite you to enjoy the fruits of that labor. Not all of these are going to be accurate for the chronology. But they’re cars, I mean, come on. _Shiny_.

This was the inspiration for Dougal’s car in Chapter 1:

1928 Stearns Knight

This is what I envisioned as Jamie’s car:

1920s Mercedes

Okay, fic trivia (and confession) time: John Grey is a motorcycle cop for two reasons:

1\. I needed him to be able to work alone, and patrolmen who operated cars _always_ worked in teams of 2-4 in Chicago in the 1920s.

2\. The uniforms were better looking. Yeah. I really gave John a specific job for the sexy uniform. 

This is actually a New York police officer (and possibly ca. 1930). I have no idea what make of motorcycles Chicago PD used in 1929, but Harley Davidson and Indian were the major suppliers nationwide, so odds are it was one of them. And Indians are cool.


End file.
